


Loving Your Work

by dettiot



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6023068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dettiot/pseuds/dettiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war between America and Russia is very cold, yet when an organization of former Nazis obtains the method and means to make an atomic bomb, the two nations are forced to work together to prevent the end of the world, by sending their best agents.  </p><p>Tommy Merlyn of the CIA and Oliver Queen of the KGB don’t like each other, but they both want to win.  Which means keeping Felicity Smoak safe, finding Dr. Noah Teller (her father and the scientist building the bomb) and preventing the bomb from being delivered to the Nazis.  Oh, and acquiring Dr. Teller’s research without the other one getting access to it.  </p><p>While Tommy is focused on obtaining the intel in order to give him leverage to get out of his deal with the CIA, Felicity simply wants to maintain her freedom now that she’s out from behind the Iron Curtain.  And Oliver?  Well, he’s trying to keep his violent tendencies in check--especially around Felicity.</p><p>An Olicity AU of the movie <i>The Man from U.N.C.L.E.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much from the moment I left the theater after seeing _The Man from U.N.C.L.E._ , I knew I wanted to write an Olicity AU of this movie. It took more time than I thought, yet it’s finally here and I hope y’all enjoy it! 
> 
> Many thanks to acheaptrickandacheesyoneline for reading this and providing feedback. Since she hasn’t seen the movie, this hopefully means that whether you’ve seen _The Man from U.N.C.L.E._ or not, you will still enjoy this fic and be able to follow the action. andcreation also took a look at this first chapter, but is unspoiled for the rest of the fic. :-)
> 
> If you’d like some mood music while reading, I recommend the movie soundtrack, [available on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLMsFR-IuG_7Edbn_LSDG5NW3RjgNxOp8N).

 

 

_ May 1963 _

Adopting a jaunty stride that plainly broadcasted his American citizenship, Thomas Merlyn strode through the American sector of West Berlin on a spring day in the late afternoon.  His destination was Checkpoint Charlie, and from there to East Berlin and a young woman whom he had been sent to retrieve.  

He gave the guard his normal charming smile, his true feelings helpfully concealed by the sunglasses he wore.  Once he was cleared for entry, he picked up his small suitcase and moved casually into East Berlin, perfectly aware that as soon as he entered the Russian-controlled portion of Berlin, he was being followed.  Of course he was: he was an American, dressed in a perfectly-tailored suit, in East Berlin.  To not be followed would indicate he was seen as no threat at all.

And Thomas Merlyn, although he was known as Tommy to his mother and beautiful woman around the world,  _ was  _ a threat.  

By the time he reached his destination, the day had faded into early evening, the sky a soft black offset by the fuzzy yellow glow of the few streetlights surrounding a ramshackle automobile garage.  Only the boss and one mechanic were present, the mechanic hard at work underneath a large car.  

After a few words of greeting in German, Tommy strolled over to the car the mechanic was working on.  He let his eyes roam over what was revealed by the open hood, then spoke in German.  “I always thought the 750cc was too underpowered an engine for this car.  But with this one . . . stick some wings on this car and then all you would need is a runway.”

“Your accent’s not bad for an American.”  

The voice of the mechanic was soft and feminine, even when speaking the harsh consonants of the German language.  She pushed herself out from under the car, revealing a pale face streaked with grease and blue eyes behind a set of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses.  Those blue eyes ran over him, measuring him, then she tilted her head.  “You look important,” she told Tommy in English.  “Your suit does, at least, and that usually means someone important.  Although of course appearances are deceiving, but . . . your suit looks important.”  

She pushed herself back under the car before Tommy could say anything.  He smiled to himself, amused by the intelligent young woman who was hiding herself as a simple mechanic.  “I can get you over the Wall.  Would that be important enough for you, Fräulein Smoak?”

There was a brief pause, then the sound of metal against metal and Miss Smoak’s voice again.  “Someone is trying to be as smart as his suit.  You should be careful, saying things like that around here.  You could get into trouble.”

Tommy understood what the Fräulein was leaving unsaid:   _ And get me into it as well _ .

“Or get you out of it,” he commented, taking a seat on a splintered wooden chair and hefting his case onto the desk in front of said chair.  He was getting comfortable since Miss Smoak had no idea the trouble she was already in and he might as well rest for a moment.

Miss Smoak once again pushed herself out from under the car, sitting up on the cart she had been using, and eyed him.  “You’ve gotten comfortable, I see.  You shouldn’t have.  You  _ should _ leave.”  She glanced around as she rose to her feet and bent over the engine of her car.  

So far, the young woman in front of him both contradicted and confirmed the dossier the CIA had prepared.  Felicity Smoak, age twenty-five, intelligent and forthright with a rebellious streak and a heart of gold.  Dressed in a baggy and practical blue coverall, her figure was a mystery, but the faded yet cheerful print scarf wrapped around her blonde curls, the fabric in shades of pink and blue and purple, showed her feminine side.

When Tommy said nothing, Miss Smoak stopped pretending to work and looked at him.  “Who are you and what do you want?  Because it’s certainly not to get me over the Wall, even if I believed you could do it.”  She lifted a hand and pushed her glasses up, revealing how the grease got  smeared over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“I’m simply here to have a friendly chat about your father,” Tommy began, only for Miss Smoak to immediately interrupt him.

“I don’t have a father.”

It was such an interesting answer to a question he hadn’t even asked, Tommy allowed himself to wait a moment before continuing.  Just to show her that he was smart and he knew what she was trying to do.  

“Not your foster father, the mechanic who taught you all he knew.  Your real father,” Tommy said, producing from his suitcase a small photograph.  “Dr. Noah Teller.”  

Tommy could see the hunger in Miss Smoak’s gaze as her eyes locked on the photograph of a distinguished-looking man holding a small girl while sitting in a field.  Even in black and white, the girl’s golden curls shone in the sunshine.  Did she remember this day?  Did she have a copy of the photograph, hidden away out of sight within her dumpy little room three streets away?  Tommy doubted it.  There was a carefully-hidden longing in her gaze--and while Tommy would rather not have to crush such longing, it couldn’t be helped.

“Hitler’s favorite rocket scientist,” Tommy continued, replacing the photograph in the suitcase.  And frowning when he spied a Russian-made bug, tucked away between the layers of clothing in the case.

“If you came to me to find him, you’re wasting your time,” Miss Smoak said, showily going back to working on her engine.  “I haven’t seen him in eighteen years.”  

“That’s because he was working for us,” Tommy explained, picking up the bug distastefully and turning it over in his fingers, guessing it had been placed in his bag when he went through Checkpoint Charlie.  “After the war, he was working for the U.S. nuclear program, fully enjoying the American dream, down to the house, the new Cadillac, and the fat little dog called Schnitzel.  But then, two years ago, he disappeared completely.”  

Tommy dropped the bug into the dregs of cold coffee in a mug on the desk, then removed another photograph from the suitcase and displayed it to Miss Smoak.  “Until now--this was taken two weeks ago in Rome,” he said, watching as she took three steps away from the car to get a better look at the photo.

Then she shrugged and walked over to a tool box on a nearby table without a word.

Miss Smoak was proving to be a tough nut to crack.  Yet she had to be cracked--she had to come with him.  Tommy eyed her and adjusted his strategy.

“If your father’s knowledge is used by the wrong people, things could get . . . messy,” Tommy said, leaning back in his chair.  “End of the world and all that.”

_ Bingo _ , Tommy thought as he saw Miss Smoak pause in her rummaging and look upwards, as if searching for strength or answers.  Then the young woman turned to look at him.  “Do you think I know where he is?”

“No, but I believe you know someone who does,” Tommy replied, making sure he did not sound like he was gloating.  “Your mother’s brother: Damian Darhk.  Uncle Dami.”

Miss Smoak looked uncertain, so Tommy decided it was time to play his trump card.  “I’ve been told,” he said, rising from his chair, “that your father was never actually a Nazi.  He was forced to work for them, for some unknown reason.  So that’s why I want to help him.  Why don’t you help me help him?”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Miss Smoak asked, folding her arms over her chest.  

“If I had a half hour and a bed, it would be fun for both of us,” Tommy said, testing her and feeling amused when she merely rolled her eyes and looked at him disdainfully.  “If we had fifteen minutes, we’d drink tea and eat biscuits, I’d talk and you’d laugh, and then I would be on my way.  However, we don’t even have fifteen minutes.”  

Tommy gestured to the window beside them.  “So, your choice is to either come with me to a chic little hotel in West Berlin, or spend the night with the Russians, who will probably take great delight in removing your toenails one by one in a very unpleasant version of ‘this little piggy’.  So, Miss Smoak?”

The Russian who had been following him since he entered East Berlin was carefully concealed in a darkened alley, visible from the window.  Tommy had noticed him in that spot when he first got to his feet.  As Miss Smoak looked out at the street, the Russian moved enough for the streetlight to illuminate him for a moment, revealing the tall, solidly-built man with sandy hair under his cap.  

“Oh, and may I borrow your car?” Tommy asked.

XXX

Felicity Smoak wasn’t quite certain how her evening had taken a turn like this.  It should have been like every other night: working at the garage until eight, then going back to the small, dark room she rented and tinkering with the scavenged electronic parts she had acquired through various methods.  Some from the black market, some from trips to local junkyards, and some from the men who hired her to create what they needed.  It was mostly radios for picking up banned broadcasts or communicating with the outside world, but Felicity dreamed of doing more.  

While her work at her foster father’s former garage paid for her living expenses, it did not hold her interest.  And it left seemingly permanent deposits of grease under her fingernails, to her eternal dismay.  

But her work in electronics . . . that was what she wanted to do.  And the money she made from that work was never spent.  Whatever she made went into an old sock that she hid under a loose floorboard beneath her bed.  Because she was only paid in dollars, not marks, and it was dollars that would someday get her over the Wall and to freedom.  

The freedom her mother had died thinking she had provided for her only daughter.  

Unfortunately, good-hearted, kind, loving Donna Smoak had been mislead.  Yet another crime that could be laid at the Nazis’ door, Felicity had always thought.  And not the only one that had directly impacted her family.  

The war had been over for nearly twenty years, but most days in East Berlin, you could be fooled into thinking it was still going on.  Whether it was hot or cold, war was war.  

And here she was, a pawn in the game called war.  She had been for years, to the point where she had stopped believing the promises of the British and had chosen to rely only on herself.  Thus her stash of dollars, which apparently she would have to forget about now.  If the Russians were after her, they had probably already ransacked her room and taken her money, so tonight would have to go according to the American’s plan.  

Lifting her chin, Felicity gripped the steering wheel of her car and kept her eyes forward, as directed by the American agent in her back seat.  

This was just part of what was unexpected about tonight.  The other part was the Russian agent who was following them.  

Out of the corner of her eye, Felicity saw a white Trabant pull up alongside them.  She turned her head ever-so-slightly, enough to see the strong profile of the Russian.  Something about him made her feel nervous.  More nervous than she already was, driving through East Berlin in hopes of getting to West Berlin.  

“Is he following us?  Hum if he is.”

The American, whose name was Merlyn, spoke quietly.  Felicity let out a soft “mm-hmm” and kept her eyes forward, waiting for the stoplight to change colors.  

“If you hear a noise that sounds like a gunshot, drive.”  Merlyn’s voice was so bland, he could have been talking about the weather.  

It was enough to make Felicity begin babbling, to relieve her nerves and ease the tense silence inside the car.  But she had learned how to hold her tongue, so while her mind was whirling, her mouth stayed still.  Plus, if she was babbling, she would look weak and vulnerable.  And that was the last thing she wanted.  She wanted to look strong.

And then two gunshots pierced the air.  Felicity threw the car into drive and pounded on the gas pedal.  

In the rear view mirror, she saw Merlyn sit up, holding the map he had pilfered from the garage.  “Take the next right, then an immediate left.  Here’s hoping our Russian friend doesn’t drive as well as he moves.”

Felicity did as instructed, her eyes glancing from the road to the rear view mirror.  When she saw the headlights, she huffed out a breath and spoke, her voice higher-pitched than she would have liked.  “He’s behind us.”  

And closing fast, she noted as the lights came closer.  She couldn’t help feeling impressed, as the Trabant was a piece of  _ Scheiß  _ that shouldn’t have been able to get so close to them.  Or perhaps she just wasn’t as good a driver as was needed right now.  

But this close to freedom, she wasn’t going to lose this chance.  Even if she would be dependent on Merlyn and the Americans, at least the dependency would get her something almost immediately, unlike what the British had promised and failed to deliver for two years.  Even if the Russian’s Trabi was now beside her car.

So Felicity put on more speed, used all her knowledge of this car she had worked on for hours and hours, to evade the Russian agent.  Turning the wheel sharply, she grabbed the hand brake to provide the necessary resistance for the turn she was trying to make.  When the Russian’s car went careening into an asphalt heap left by a road construction crew, she felt a measure of safety.

Until he began running after them.  Fast enough that he could actually catch them.  And did.  All Felicity knew was that the car suddenly began stuttering.  

Merlyn sounded flabbergasted when he spoke.  “He’s trying to stop the car.”

“Why don’t you shoot him?” she asked Merlyn, her voice sounding reedy and angry to her ears.  

“Somehow, it just doesn’t seem fair,” Merlyn said slowly, a hint of his apparently-constant amusement flickering in his words.

Felicity was not amused.  She struggled with the car, shifting gears and putting on some extra speed--but not before the Russian managed to rip the trunk lid off her car.  

“Oh, I will  _ kill  _ him for that!” Felicity muttered under her breath, letting one hand stroke the dashboard in a silent apology to her baby for such ill-treatment.    

The American must have heard her, because he chuckled.  “Turn left and stay at this speed.”  

They were very close to the Wall, she knew.  Turning left would take them even closer . . . but she didn’t know how they were going to--

“Turn left!”

Gritting her teeth, Felicity spun the wheel and did as Merlyn said, cursing him in her head.  “This road doesn’t go anywhere!” she said, when she saw signs that the road dead-ended at the Wall.  

“Keep going.”  

“It’s getting narrower,” she said, needing to point out that which the blasé American seemed to have missed.  Because this was less of a road and more of an alley, and soon they would be out of room.

And by soon, she meant now.

With a flash of sparks, the car scraped against the sides of the buildings that lined the alley, coming to a stop on top of a staircase that went down to the Wall.

Felicity panted, the adrenaline still racing through her veins.  “Now what?” she said between sucking in air.  

“Take a left.”  

Giving him a frustrated look, she frowned.  “What?”

Merlyn leaned over the seat, making Felicity cringe back against the headrest.  He reached for the crank and slowly rolled down the window.  “Take a left--through the window.”  

Slowly, Felicity turned her head and realized the car was perfectly aligned with a second-floor window of the building to their left.  It would be an easy matter for them to get out of the car and into the building.

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes at missing something so obvious.  Feeling embarrassed, Felicity crawled through the car window and the building window, stepping down clumsily into a typical East Berlin apartment kitchen.  

His dapper air still firmly in place, Merlyn followed her and hopped down from the windowsill, fastening his suit jacket.  “This way.”  

She did as he said, her mind working away.  Once they were in the hallway outside the apartment, he led them up, towards the roof, and she guessed that he had some way for getting them into West Berlin, a way that would get them past two twenty-foot walls and the minefield between said walls.  

A way that involved a truck on the side of the far wall, firing a cable towards them.  Felicity swallowed, feeling her fear of heights come to the forefront.  But this was the plan and if this was the only way of getting free . . . 

But whatever Merlyn was planning, he clearly hadn’t counted on the Russian catching up with them.  Felicity’s fear got stronger when the Russian appeared on the roof of the neighboring building.  Especially when he fired his gun towards them, the bullet whizzing over their heads.  

Merlyn took one look at the other agent and then looked at Felicity.  “Hug me.”

In one glance, she saw what was happening.  Merlyn had clipped a hook from his belt onto the cable.  With that hook, he could slide down to the still-waiting truck.  And she would have to hold on to him.  

Felicity did not like this plan.  But with no choice, she jumped up and wrapped her arms around Merlyn’s neck, feeling his firm muscles and hoping they were strong enough to hold both of them up.  

And then, they were moving through the air, picking up speed as they slid down the cable.  

Followed by the Russian.

XXX

As the cable began slackening, dropping him ever closer to the minefield, Oliver Queen cursed in his native tongue.  

As soon as the American and the girl made it to the truck, the vehicle had reversed, putting slack in the cable and bringing Oliver to a stop.  Now he was hanging over the minefield, ten feet from the wall and two feet lower than the top of the wall.

It had been a long shot, catching the American and the girl.  Not with the lead they had built on him, not with having a support team in place while he was trying to coerce the East German police into assisting him.  Yet that meant nothing--if he had been better, faster, stronger, he would have caught them, would have fulfilled his orders to kill the American and capture the girl.  

He was too far from the wall and too low.  There was no chance he would clear the wall.  So he let go of one sleeve of his jacket, dropping down into the minefield with no fear for himself.   

Glad that he could not see the American’s face, glad that he would not see the gloating on his adversary’s face.  

For that was who the American was: his adversary.  Just like their countries were.  

Thomas Merlyn: a decorated war veteran who had discovered a talent for thievery.  He had traveled through Europe, learning languages, bedding women, and stealing priceless artifacts until he had been caught.  “Through sheer luck,” Anatoly had told him.  

Instead of letting any of the four countries chasing Merlyn prosecute him, the CIA had intervened.  Choosing to put Merlyn on their payroll, they trained him as a spy and made use of his specialized skills.  

Oliver did not agree with that decision.  No matter how short the leash, Thomas Merlyn was not a man who could be trusted.  But it was nothing to him.  

All he had ahead of him was a tiring round of questions from the East Germans before they would let him go.  Tiring because after beating a group of their policemen, they would be unhappy with him.  

But it was nothing.  

Not in the face of his failure.  He would have to redeem himself.  And he would.  Just because Merlyn had gotten the girl over the wall did not mean the mission was over.  His government would not give up so easily.  

He had gotten a good look at the girl when they were waiting at the stoplight.  Glasses, blonde hair, delicate features.  She did not look strong.  She looked like she would be unable to do much to help Merlyn.  In fact, it might be good that he was saddled with her now.  She would slow him down.  

But she had held her own with the driving, maneuvering her car with grit and determination.  Like she was chasing after something valuable.

Oliver found his mind returning to that question throughout the night.  As he was questioned, as he walked back to the room Anatoly had set aside for him, as he laid in the narrow bed and looked up at the ceiling.  

What made Felicity Smoak fight?

An answer was no more forthcoming in the morning, when Anatoly fetched him and took him into West Berlin.  He felt his skin itch slightly, being surrounded by such decadence.  It reminded him of his childhood, the days when his family were among the elite.  A pampered, luxurious existence.  

An existence that had made him soft.  Weak.  Unprepared for the fall.  

Rubbing his thumb against his fingers, Oliver followed Anatoly into a public bathroom, braced for anything.  Anything but Merlyn standing there, listening as another man told him to take what he was being given.  

The American only had time for a split-second glance at him before Oliver threw himself forward, tackling Merlyn.  Oliver pinned his arms behind his head, keeping him in check even as they crashed through the toilet stalls, thanks to Merlyn’s struggles.  

The other man’s fighting skills were rather inept, Oliver thought.  It was like fighting a giant fish, all wiggling and flapping instead of directed strikes.  There were at least three counter defenses that Merlyn could use against him which would let him escape Oliver’s hold.  Instead, he just kept trying to break free with pure strength instead of cunning.  Not what he would have expected.  

Getting the American in a headlock, Oliver felt clarity fall over him.  That was what he found when he matched himself against another.  Everything fell away and became very simple.  He was a killer and he would kill.  That was what was required of him.

“Queen.  Не убивай своего партнера в первый день."

At Anatoly’s order, Oliver released Merlyn and shoved him away.  Merlyn spluttered like a pansy, breathing hard and acting like he had never been choked before.  

“What does that mean?” Merlyn gasped out.  

“He said, ‘don’t kill your partner on your first day’,” the fourth man said.  Clearly Merlyn’s handler, Oliver thought, questioning the man’s choice of agent.  

“I know what he said,” Merlyn said, somewhat recovered.  “But what does it mean?”

It was all Oliver could do not to scoff at Merlyn’s question.  But he stayed silent.  

He wondered where Merlyn had taken the girl.  The American was some kind of womanizer.  Had he bedded her?  It meant nothing to Oliver, of course.  He was merely curious.  What would it have taken to get the girl’s knees apart?  Sweet words, probably.  Kindness.  Softness.  Nothing that Oliver could show.

“Come, we will go somewhere more appropriate,” Anatoly said, nodding to Merlyn’s handler.  “Agreed, Malcolm?”

“Agreed,” the other man said, who had the look of the military about him.  

Frankly, Oliver would have preferred to stay in the restroom.  What else needed to be discussed?  But as always, he followed his orders.

To all appearances, he sat with perfect casualness in the West Berlin cafe to which they had relocated.   But in reality, he was busy studying the man across the table from him.

His new partner: this cowboy, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that was much more formal than Oliver’s turtleneck, suede coat and slacks.  Merlyn’s smile was charming and his blue eyes sparkled, but Thomas Merlyn clearly had a wild streak.  An unpredictability about him.  It must come from being a thief--a man without honor.

He didn’t like it.  And given the importance of this operation, the world resting in the balance and the victorious country bestowed with an unparalleled advantage . . . he must not fail again.  He must succeed.  For the sake of the Soviet Union.  

“Dr. Teller has discovered improvements in the process to enrich uranium, allowing less uranium to be needed for a nuclear bomb,” Anatoly explained.  “And now he is working, against his will we believe, for a massive criminal organization with ties to former Nazis.  And at the center of that organization is the Vinciguerras of Rome.”  

Producing a pale blue folder, Malcolm began passing the two agents various photographs.  “Slade Vinciguerra ran the most powerful shipping line in Italy.  During the war, he was a Fascist who worked closely with the Nazis.  So closely that he was rumored to have smuggled their gold to safety,” Malcolm told them.  

“Now that the old man is dead, the company is run by his son, Sebastian, along with Sebastian’s wife, Isabel.  Sebastian is mostly a playboy.  But Isabel--”  Malcolm paused, giving his words more weight.  “She is a deadly combination of brains, beauty and ambition.”

Looking at the haughty face of Isabel Vinciguerra, Oliver could see all three qualities in the woman.  There was a feeling of a snake, coiled and waiting for the opportune moment to strike, in Mrs. Vinciguerra’s demeanor.  

“Your mission is to find Miss Smoak’s father, recover the nuclear warhead, and acquire Dr. Teller’s research, which is on a computer disc like this,” Anatoly said, plopping a round,  aqua-colored computer data tape on the table.  

Malcolm nodded.  “Mr. Merlyn will handle infiltrating Vinciguerra Shipping and learning where Sebastian and Isabel Vinciguerra have hidden Dr. Teller.  Mr. Queen, you will be protecting the girl and assisting her in contacting her uncle once you arrive in Rome.”  

Nodding to show his understanding and feeling relieved that it was Merlyn who would have to deal with Isabel Vinciguerra, Oliver met Merlyn’s eyes.  Typically partners needed to have trust between each other.  There was none between him and Merlyn, but they have to work together.  It was what the Motherland demanded. 

“We will leave you to get acquainted,” Anatoly said, his words completely contrasting with Oliver’s thoughts enough for him to look at his handler, ready to disagree.  Only his years of training let him hold his tongue.

“Excellent,” Merlyn said, in that cocky manner of his that set Oliver’s teeth on edge.  “We’ll get started right away.”  

And thus, Oliver was alone with his new partner.  Drawn into a mission with someone he didn’t trust, protecting a girl who was a liability to his emotional balance, with the fate of his country hanging in the balance.  

And he would not fail.

End, Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

 

Left alone with his new partner, Tommy Merlyn couldn't help considering if the man was even human.  He had his doubts based on the Russian’s actions last night--the dogged determination, the relentless pursuit, the stoic demeanor . . . this Oliver Queen seemed more like a Soviet experiment let loose upon an unknowing, unsuspecting, unprepared world than a flesh-and-blood man.

Not that he had any say in the matter, but Tommy didn’t like it.  Working with a partner--a  _ male  _ partner--was not his style.  And while he really doesn’t care about politics or the us vs. them of American-Soviet relations, he doubted this mission was going to end well.

Which would keep him further in debt to Malcolm than he already was.  With five years left on his prison sentence, Tommy knew there was no hope of freedom in the near future.  Because Malcolm wouldn't let him go a minute early.  So he just had to do his job and keep his under-the-table work quiet, and everything would be fine.

But Oliver Queen put that goal in jeopardy.

Finally, the Russian broke the silence.  “I have studied you--your background, your work--to understand you.  A man with no honor, a thief . . . do you know what I concluded?”

Without waiting for Tommy to say anything, Queen continued.  “There is a humiliation about you.  One that, I believe, comes from having your balls on a very short leash, held by a very small man.”

If that assessment was made about any other man, Tommy might have laughed.  Felt that delight in another's misfortunes that was so wonderfully named by the Germans: schadenfreude.  Such as it was, though, it was a bit too on-the-nose for comfort.  But two could play this game.

“And you would know all there is to know about humiliation, wouldn't you?” Tommy said blandly as his eyes never left Queen’s face.  “I read up about you, too.  Judo champion, chess master, Soviet Armed Forces,  the KGB at age twenty-one and became their best man in three years.  It's remarkable, given your family history.”

There was the barest flicker of emotion in Queen’s icy blue eyes, so Tommy knew he was on the right track.  Especially when he noticed Queen rubbing his thumb against the fingers of his right hand.

“What with your father being such good friends with Stalin and all that,” Tommy went on.  “Until he was discovered to be embezzling Party funds and slipping them to the less well-connected.  That was when your psychotic episodes began--when he was sent to Siberia, yes?”

It was so obvious how Queen was fighting with all his strength not to react.  His new Russian partner seemed to have mastered the aphorism of still waters running deep.  Which was something Tommy was perfectly willing to use against him.

“I wonder if it was because of your shame that those episodes kept occurring,” Tommy said.  “Or maybe it was because of how your mother coped in the aftermath . . . she became very important to the Party, didn't she?  At least, she was very important to certain men in the Party--”

There was a flicker of motion, and then in a move of smooth, refined violence, Queen stood and flipped their table end-over-end with one hand.  He took two deep breaths, staring down at Tommy, who let his face stay smooth and unruffled, a slight smirk on his face.

Oh, this was going to be fun.  Especially once Queen found out what his cover was.  He wouldn't have guessed the Russian had a chivalrous streak, but it was going to be enjoyable to watch that tendency rub Miss Smoak the wrong way.

Because Felicity Smoak was an independent little thing, and Oliver Queen had caveman written all over him.

“Well, it's a good thing we hadn't ordered any coffee,” Tommy said.  “Now, let's talk about our mission.”  

Queen looked disgruntled but sat down in his chair.  “I do not know what there is to discuss.  I will be keeping the girl safe, and you . . . you will keep your hands clean as you get the sheets dirty with Isabel Vinciguerra.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” Tommy asked with a smirk.  “Funny, I didn't take it as one.  And have you given any thought about how you will be protecting Miss Smoak?”

“I get between her and bullet.”

Tommy nodded seriously.  “Just as a devoted fiancé would.”

He couldn't help himself.  It was just too much fun to wind up the Red Peril.  And Queen didn't disappoint.  His eyebrows drew together in confusion, and in a tone of utter disdain, he said, “Fiancé?”

“There needs to be some kind of explanation for your presence while Miss Smoak is interacting with her uncle.  You are Oliver Queen, Russian architect who has been sent to Rome to study classical designs.  As a perquisite, you received a visa for your lovely fiancée, so she can announce her engagement to her beloved Uncle Dami.”

Yet again, Queen doesn't disappoint.  His lips were half-pursed, half-pouty as he took in what his role would be.  Then he shook his head.  “If the mission requires it, I will do my duty.”

“Just remember, I'm the one who gets to have sex,” Tommy said with a wink as he rose from his chair.  “Miss Smoak will need the appropriate clothing.  She's waiting for me at Raffiento’s on  the  Kurfürstendamm .”

Queen gave him a slightly annoyed look as he also stood up.  “I will meet you there.”

“Looking forward to it,” Tommy remarked, full of blustery cheer.  And truthfully, he was looking forward to it.  Because the only way to get through each mission, through each day that brought him closer to the end of his sentence, was to be utterly amused by whatever happened around him.  To the point where if nothing fun was going on, he would create some.  

Except when his life was on the line.  Then, Thomas Merlyn was very serious.

But still witty, too.  There was no way to turn all this charm off and on, after all.

XXX

The captivating Miss Smoak cleaned up nicely, Tommy thought to himself as he sat in one of West Berlin’s chicest salons.  With the grease removed from her face and her hair uncovered, she reminded him of the girls he had known back home; she possessed a healthy warmth and friendliness.  But there was also a sadness, a watchfulness, in her that was very Germanic.  A quality that hinted at many things being held back while nothing of consequence was revealed.

There was probably a word for it in German, but whatever it was, Miss Smoak had it.  Her secrets were hidden behind her tangential discourse and cheerful, can-do attitude, but they were there.  

Tommy was fine with letting her keep her secrets, but he wondered how his Soviet counterpart would take this secretive little ball of sunshine.  He would find that out soon, though, once Queen arrived.

Miss Smoak was currently trying on shoes, making expressions of pleasure or discomfort depending on the fit.  Dressed in a tailored blue dress with gold buttons, she looked older than her twenty-five years, although the dress was rather at odds with her rumpled ponytail.  Tommy would have to hint that a chignon would be a more appropriate hairstyle.

“So the Americans and the Russians are teaming up,” Miss Smoak said as she took a practice walk in a demure pair of heeled loafers.  “You must want my father's research very badly to work together.  Am I supposed to be some kind of buffer, to keep things from getting messy?”  The arch in her eyebrow told him she had picked that word on purpose, remembering his words from last night.

“Both sides are in agreement that while we could work in opposition, trying to gain the intelligence for ourselves, the priority for the greater good is getting your father away from the Nazis and preventing the Vinciguerras from creating an atom bomb,” Tommy said, turning a page in his newspaper.  “How are the shoes?”

“My woman would never wear them.  Or clothes such as these.”

Looking up, Tommy saw that Queen had arrived, and he had certainly made an impression on Miss Smoak.  The young woman was facing him, her hands on her hips.  

“Excuse me, ‘your woman’?” Miss Smoak said in a raised voice.

“For this mission, I am to be your fiancé.  Congratulations,” Queen replied.

“What is he saying?” Miss Smoak asked, turning to look at Tommy.

While part of him was tempted to dump gasoline on this burgeoning fire, Tommy held back.  “Your protection is of the utmost importance, and you won't be safer with anyone more than you would be with the Red Peril here.”

“These clothes are all wrong for you,” Queen said, his eyes running critically over Miss Smoak.

Tommy hadn't pegged Queen for having a sense of humor, but this was some joke he was pulling on Miss Smoak.  Narrowing his eyes, he waited to see what would happen next.

Which was Miss Smoak stepping out of her shoes, pulling off her gold earrings, and striding out of the salon.

Sighing, Tommy put aside his newspaper and rose from his chair.  “Nicely done,” he muttered as he stepped past Queen.

She had only stepped out onto the sidewalk, and Tommy took in the tension in her frame as he approached her.  “I know Queen isn't a girl's dream of a fiancé, but--”

“I'm no actress,” Miss Smoak interrupted him.  “And he’s no actor, apparently.  How are we going to convince people--how are we going to convince my uncle--that we're in love and going to get married?”

So Miss Smoak was a secret romantic.  And while crushing her like this made Tommy feel like he was kicking a puppy, romantic notions had no place here.

“People will see what they want to see.  Probably you using him to get out of East Germany and him using you to advance his career, to make him appear normal instead of damaged,” Tommy told her.  “You and Queen will make it work.”

Miss Smoak looked at him for a long moment and then shook her head.  “You're asking too much of me.”

“I'm asking you to help us stop the Nazis from destroying the world.  There is no such thing as asking for too much in this situation,” Tommy said.  But then, feeling like he had spoken too bluntly, he softened his approach.  “It's only for a few days.”

It was clear that his words offered her little comfort.  Strangely, he found himself racking his brain for something that might bring back her quiet sparkle.  But it took him too long, and Miss Smoak just nodded and walked back into the salon.

He followed her, feeling that spark of amusement return when Miss Smoak marched right up to Queen and said, “Don't call me ‘your woman’ and I won't have to hurt you.”

There was a lightness in Queen’s eyes when he looked at the little Germanic sunbeam.  “And how would you hurt me?”

To Peril’s credit, the words weren't said in disbelief or doubt.  It was more like he was looking to find out what she would do.  The Soviets had always been strangely egalitarian when it came to women, though.

“I have a voice that can be quite loud when I'm angry,” she said with a lifted chin.

Tommy could barely hold back his laughter, but Queen’s face didn't so much as flicker.  “Might I suggest no punching?” he said, reaching into his pocket as he took her hand.  “Not with this on your hand.  It would give me another scar,” he explained, gesturing to his face and the small, curving mark that ran over his temple.

Stepping closer, Tommy realized that Queen had just handed Miss Smoak a gold ring with a small but adequate diamond.  Miss Smoak looked it over, then lifted her eyes to Queen’s face.

“I'll consider it.  If only you tell me which member of the Russian nobility your government stole this from.”

At that, Tommy had to laugh.  Not just because of the on-target hit by Miss Smoak, but by the look on Peril's face.

XXX

This was not what he expected.

Guarding the girl, he could do.  He was a very effective bodyguard.  He would be willing to die to protect her.

But having to pretend to be her fiancé . . . that was something Oliver Queen was not prepared for.  Especially with the kind of woman this Felicity Smoak was.

She was . . . quicksilver.  Just like the mercury in a thermometer, reactive and dynamic.

And dangerous like that chemical.  But dangerous only to him and not to anyone else.

There were warring elements in her.  She was naturally cheerful, he thought.  But something made her mute her glow, keep it inside until it involuntarily escaped.  Sunshine breaking through the clouds.

Shaking his head, Oliver tried to focus on his mission.  When they had arrived in Rome, there had been men in the hotel lobby as they had checked in.  Men watching them.  So after dinner, Oliver had told the girl they needed to go for a walk.

She had complied without a word, something he hadn't expected.  But then, as they approached the Spanish Steps, she spoke, in a light, uninterested voice.  One that couldn’t hide how much she wanted an answer to her question.

“Why are we doing this again?”

“I am tourist and so are you.  We do what tourists do: we see the sights,” Oliver said, his eyes taking in the landmarks while keeping the two men in view.

“Is that so?” she asked.  Her voice had a curious lilt to it, making it pleasing to his ear.

Nodding, Oliver looked at her, taking in the stylish coat she wore in a deep fuschia, the heels that lengthened her legs, the ponytail of curls that were draped over her shoulder, and the dainty engagement ring on her finger.  She looked very lovely and extremely vulnerable.

“Then tell me about the steps.”

Had he thought she looked vulnerable?  Clearly he had misjudged her.  And she seemed to have realized just what he had been thinking about her, because the challenge in her voice was unmistakable.  Not to mention the tilt to her head, the sparkle in her eyes . . . 

She was throwing down the gauntlet.  And he had to accept it, even though he knew nothing about the steps beyond their name.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “the name to the contrary, these steps were made by Russian.  An architect, Sergei Ivanoff, designed the steps.  He was inspired by his beloved mother and made each step represent a year of her life.”

“So she lived to be one hundred and thirty-five?” the girl asked.  When Oliver started at her, she gestured towards an informational placard.  One that stated there were one hundred and thirty-five steps.

When caught in a lie, you could either confess or carry on.  And Oliver never confessed.  It was a matter of pride.

“No, of course not.  No, Sergei used his mother's age and his own, when the steps were being designed.  A hundred for his mother and thirty-five for himself.”

“Hmmm,” she murmured, looking around.  “She gave birth at sixty-five, then?”

There was no gloating in her voice.  Which Oliver couldn't help thinking spoke well of this Felicity Smoak.  She didn't hit someone when they were already down.  Although such kindness was in truth a weakness, he liked it in her.

She gave him a small smile and pressed her fingers against his arm, making him very conscious of her warmth through the layers of fabric.  But before anything could happen, before he could try to recover from his clumsy attempt at impressing her, Merlyn appeared on a Vespa.

“You should not be here,” Oliver snapped, his annoyance heightened by Merlyn’s interruption.  “We should not be seen in public together.”

“You  _ are _ aware you're being followed, yes?” Merlyn asked.

It was all Oliver could do not to roll his eyes.  “Of course,” he replied.  “Two men, one in brown suit, one in leather jacket.  I am handling it.”

“They've been sent to check you out,” Merlyn said, as if Oliver was a novice on his first assignment.  “Making sure you are who you claim to be.”

“What does that mean?” the girl asked, her hand tightening on Oliver's arm for a split-second.

“It means Peril here can't kill them,” Merlyn said.  “Because the man he's supposed to be hasn't been trained to kill.”

By his side, Oliver could feel the girl grow rigid.  He didn't have the time to figure out why she tensed, pushing down his response to her tension, shoving aside his wondering about what it meant.  “I am  _ handling _ it,” he insisted instead.

“I think you should do as he says,” the girl said softly, her voice more request than demand.

Oliver wanted to glare at her.  Say that he was her protector and he would do that, and the sensible thing would be to eliminate anyone who suspected they were anything other than a newly-engaged couple.

But then he looked at her.  Looked at Felicity, and saw that it was not her fear motivating her request.  Oh, she was scared: it was plain to see with her darting eyes and teeth sunk into her plump lower lip.  But there was something else in her face, something more.

He tilted his head to the side, knowing the unspoken question was written all over his face.   _ Why? _

Her teeth released her lip.  “If those men don't check in, then the Vinciguerras will know something's not right.”

It was logical.  Good strategy.  The truth, really.  And coming from her lips, he had many fewer reservations about this plan than when Merlyn proposed it.

Yet he did not want to reveal this fact to anyone.  Especially not Merlyn.  So grudgingly, he nodded his head.  “This is not Russian way.”

An expression that looked like relief appeared on Felicity's face for an instant, then it was wiped away.  He turned to continue their supposed sight-seeing tour, but Merlyn's smirk made him pause.

“Queen?  Remember to take it like a pussy.”  Merlyn winked and then started up the Vespa, driving in the opposite direction.

Oliver frowned.  “Not Russian way,” he muttered, not knowing why he repeated himself.  And bracing himself for the shame of having to do just what Merlyn said.

Take it like a pussy.

XXX

Not for the first time, Felicity wondered if throwing in with these two men was better than her former plan:  waiting for the British to finally act after two years of gathering information and telling her to be patient.

Which was a question born out of her fear, she knew.  Because action was always better than waiting.  And by following Merlyn, by agreeing to play her part with Queen, she was out of East Germany.  She was never going back there.

But watching Queen fidget as they walked through the ruins of the ancient Coliseum was making her question that decision.

Making her question many things.

There was something about Oliver Queen that reminded of the fairy stories her mother had told her.  Hearing Donna's voice as she read about princesses and heroes, enchanted animals and evil witches . . . it was her first memory.  One of the few things she could remember about her mother without sadness.

Oliver Queen made her think of a bear.  One that had been bewitched by an enchantress and would only return to his true form after he completed a quest or found true love.  Which was utter silliness.  Felicity Smoak didn't believe in magic or fairy tales.

Even when the man in question was so handsome and so strong and solid.  Like a statue brought to life.  Yet he was also so gentle and quiet and polite . . .

“Give me some money for coffee.”

At the words, uttered in a voice full of barely-disguised malevolence, both of them drew up short.  Queen turned in such a way that she was mostly behind him, but she could see around his arm to the man in the ugly brown suit.

He smirked at Queen.  And then another man, in a leather jacket, appeared at her side.  “It is not safe, a couple like you walking in a place like this.  Men like us, we show you why.”

Leather Jacket was gloating and Felicity could feel Queen's arm tensing under her hand.  “Give him some money for coffee, darling,” she told Queen, the pet name sticking in her throat.  “It’s just a few thousand lira and then we can be on our way.”  

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Queen's thumb and fingers rubbing together.  Something told her that it wasn’t a good thing for him to be doing that.  But he couldn’t lose control and lash out like he wanted, like she knew he would have preferred.  Her relief was palpable when with jerky movements, he nodded and pulled out his wallet.

Queen handed over a few folded bills, which Brown Suit accepted casually.  Then he nodded towards her.  “The ring.”

Should she refuse?  Would an engaged woman fight to keep her ring?  Or was it only married women who did that, like her mother who never took off her ring, even after her father had left them?

“No,” Queen said harshly before she could come up with an answer.  He seemed to be on the verge of breaking, and Felicity knew she had to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“It--it's okay,” she stuttered, tugging the ring off and giving it to Brown Suit.

Leather Jacket must have decided that he wasn't going to pass up this chance.  “The watch, too,” he demanded, pointing at Queen's wrist.

It shouldn't be possible, but Queen went absolutely rigid.  His muscles under her arm--very nice muscles, ones she hoped to be able to think about later--turned into solid rock.

“Give him the watch, darling,” Felicity whispered.  But Queen gave no sign of hearing her.  He simply kept staring at Leather Jacket.

“Give me the watch,” he repeated, slapping Queen.  His face turned towards Felicity from the blow, and she saw the crack in his facade.  The violence begging to break free, straining to be unleashed.

Felicity gripped his arm tighter.  “Oliver,” she cajoled, using his name for the first time.

He heard her.  It broke through his anger and suddenly he was unstrapping the watch from around his wrist, handing it over.  But then in a blur of movement, Brown Suit had a hand to his face and Leather Jacket was on the ground, and Oliver looked calmer.

Both men looked furious, ready to attack, but then Merlyn suddenly appeared and the Vinciguerra men decided to cut and run.  They were barely out of earshot when Merlyn rounded on Oliver.  “What part of the plan was too hard for you to grasp?”

“Russian architect would fight them.  Russian agent would kill them,” Oliver said firmly.  “He took my father's watch.”

“And now they also have a heaping pile of suspicions about you,” Merlyn said, none of his typical amusement in his voice.

“You two are supposed to be protecting me,” Felicity snapped, reminding them of her presence.  “Yet I'm the one playing mother and protecting you from yourselves.”

Felicity knew she was exaggerating.  That her fear and adrenaline were making her reckless.  But she needed to get the point across.  These two stubborn men didn't trust each other and Felicity wasn't surprised.  Their personalities clashed and the only goal they had in common--keeping her father's research from becoming more than research--could be achieved in ways more beneficial to only one of their countries.  

But she didn't care about that.  She cared about keeping her neck safe and out of Germany.  And by God, they were going to make sure that stayed the case.

She glared at each of them.  “We don't have to like each other, but we do have to work together.  So figure it out, boys.  I'm going back to the hotel and having a drink.  Or six.”

With a swirl of her coat that was unplanned but very effective, Felicity turned on her heel and started marching away.

It only took a moment for Oliver to catch up to her, those long legs of his covering the ground with great speed.  “At next corner, turn right.  You are going wrong way.”

There just might have been the tiniest bit of laughter in his voice.  She glanced up at him and saw the corners of his mouth were infinitesimally raised.  As if he was amused by her.

Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten to her.  Squaring her shoulders, she did as he had directed, and continued to follow his prompts as she stomped her way back to their hotel.

She could only hope the bar in their suite was fully stocked.  Because Felicity Smoak did not make idle statements when it came to drinking.

XXX

His German was rusty but passable enough to know that Felicity was talking to her uncle about him, recounting the night's events.  Something about him being shaken up because he had never been in a fight before.

Rather than respond, Oliver kept his eyes fixed on the chessboard, playing against himself as he attempted to devise an approach that could beat a grandmaster.  

Felicity hung up the phone as she finished her second drink.  Picking up another cut-glass tumbler, she carried both the glasses and the bottle of vodka over to the couch, plopping down on the cushions.  She poured a measure in the clean glass, then held it out to him.

Had she chosen the vodka as a nod to him?  Oliver didn't know, but she was about to be disappointed.  “No.  Thank you.”

“A Russian who doesn't drink.  Wow,” she said, her words coming out with a slight slur.  With how small and delicate she was--physically, not in terms of her personality--it was little wonder she was already feeling the alcohol.  And that was why Oliver didn't drink.  It was unpredictable.  And it turned people into what they truly were.

And Oliver Queen did not need vodka for that to happen.  

“I intend to finish this bottle, with or without your help,” Felicity said, tossing back the vodka she had poured for him.  He raised his eyebrows, impressed at her ability to down the liquor, and she gave him a delighted smile.  “You're impressed.  It took me a long time to learn how to hold my drink, but working around men all the time, all the meetings I have in beer gardens . . . it's been a useful skill.”

She refilled the glass and looked around the suite idly.  Oliver returned his eyes to the chessboard, but it was just an act.  He was hyper-aware of her.  The sound of her breathing, the scent of lily-of-the-valley that hung about her, the little gestures she made as she fidgeted on the couch.  Then she leaned over towards him and lifted up his chessboard, scattering pieces everywhere.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, frustrated at her interruption, especially since he was sure she would blame her current condition for her lack of manners.

“Hush,” she snapped, taking the board and flipping it over.  She frowned, then dropped the board and started examining each of the chess pieces.

“I don't interfere with your pastimes so I must ask that you--”

Oliver's high-handed speech was cut off by Felicity holding up a rook and turning it towards him.  The piece of felt on the bottom of the piece was loose, and Oliver watched as Felicity used the tip of a red-painted nail to peel back the felt and reveal a bug.  An American-made bug.

“Not one of yours.  Okay,” Felicity said, handing him back the piece and standing up.  She took her glass and the bottle and headed towards the bedroom.  As Oliver stared at the bug, still too confused by how she had known it was there, the sound of American music filled the suite.

She had just found it, as easy as breathing.  Even with his skills at observation, he hadn't spotted this particular bug.  And ‘not one of yours’?  How did Felicity know that he had bugged their suite?

Oliver yanked the bug free of the chess piece and clutched it in his hand.  He stood and followed her into the bedroom, taking her in.  Felicity had donned a pair of round, white-rimmed sunglasses as she danced around the room.  When she spotted him, she grinned.  “Surprised, Oliver?”

Something about his name, said in that teasing tone, unsettled him more than her finding the bug.

“You knew I had bugged the room?” he asked, having to raise his voice slightly over the music.

Felicity nodded before spinning around.  “Yep.  They're easy to spot.  Oh, here.”

Going over to her suitcase, resting at the foot of her twin bed, Felicity kneeled in front of it and flipped the lid open.  He caught a glimpse of what looked like lace and satin and looked away, feeling awkward.  And very, very curious.  Because why was she going through her lingerie in front of him?

“As the Americans would say, ta-da.”  Felicity rose and held out a large handful of the American bugs.  “Pretty sure I got them all, but if you have any gizmos to look for bugs--first, I want to see it, and then I'll make it better, and we’ll find any that I missed.”

Oliver blinked, feeling utterly confused.  Felicity rolled her eyes and took his hand, holding it palm-up so she could dump the bugs into his hand.  Then she finished the vodka in her glass and went back to dancing.

“Why--why did you only remove the American bugs?” Oliver found himself asking, dumping the bugs on the table between the twin beds.

She looked over her shoulder and up at him, then she shrugged as she turned around.  “It didn't bother me that you were listening.  Because you're just protecting me, after all.”

_ That is not why I want to listen to you _ .  The words were on the tip of his tongue, ready to break free like nothing else inside himself ever had before.  Not even the violence, the urge to kill, was as strong as this desire to confess.

It was a feeling he couldn't trust.  One he shouldn't feel.  One that would jeopardize his mission with how it made a simple situation very complicated.  Because he wouldn't be able to do what was necessary, accurately and efficiently, if his heart was involved.

“Dance?”

“What?” he stuttered, shocked to see how close she was to him, how she had taken his hands without him even realizing it.  She gently tugged, pulling him closer with a smile.  

Oliver didn't want to dance.  But he didn't want to say no to her, either.  So he moved his feet a little, let her sway with his hands helping hold her upright.  The vodka was clearly affecting her by now, and he guessed this wouldn't last long.

Sadly.

Felicity moved even closer, bringing her warmth and floral scent.  She let go of his hands and gripped his shirt.  “Oliver,” she said, looking up at him with big, soft, blue eyes.  Eyes that were actually focused on his mouth.

And even though he knew it was a bad idea, he leaned down, closing the difference between their heights, bringing his lips nearly to hers.  “Yes?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

Her lashes fluttered and she went up on her toes clumsily.  So clumsily that her mouth nearly touched his, just long enough for him to feel her sweet breath pass over his lips, before her body suddenly went limp and boneless.

Instinctively, his arms went around her as she passed out.  He gazed at her face, soft and round, as she slept and he tried to gather his composure.  And then, he lifted her body in a bridal hold and carried her to bed.

When he set her down, she let out a quiet sound, turning in towards the pillows.  But one of her hands ran down his arm, her fingers intertwining with his for a handful of heartbeats before she let go.

“Good night, Felicity,” Oliver whispered.  Grateful that the American bugs were disabled.  Because  if Merlyn had been listening, he would know far too much about things that Oliver himself didn't understand.

Things that he wanted to understand.

XXX

The benefit to a sleepless night was that it was easy for him to go out on the errand he had planned.  That completed, he returned to the hotel and get ready for the Vinciguerra party where Felicity would make contact with her uncle.

And he was not nervous.  He did not let Merlyn's jab about his bow tie not going with his suit rattle him.  Thanks to Felicity, when Merlyn produced the bugs Oliver had placed in the American's room, Oliver countered him with the American bugs--and a dig about the CIA using lesser technology to craft their listening devices.  

So he had no reason to feel nervous.  He should feel very confident.  After all, he didn't pass out from drinking too much the night before.

He waited outside by the car for Felicity, wondering how she would look in the aftermath of her evening.  The moment she stepped outside, though, every bit of his confidence vanished.

Yes, she was wearing sunglasses.  When the light hit her face, she tugged on the brim of her hat.  But it didn't matter.  She was beautiful.  Her hair in its ponytail was brighter than the sun, draped over one shoulder and all curly, catching the light in spite of her hat.  She barely reached his shoulder, yet her legs looked miles long between her high heels and the hem of her minidress.  In green and white, she looked like the lilies that she chose as her perfume.

Straightening up, he told himself he was in control.  Last night was last night and today was today, and he had a mission to perform: ensure that Damian Darhk suspected nothing unusual about his niece's fiancé.

“Good morning,” he called out, noticing how Felicity's face immediately lifted to look at him at the sound of his voice.

She gave him a small nod and walked towards the car door, but Oliver blocked her path.  “I have a surprise for you,” he said, holding his hands out to her, balled into fists.

Her eyebrow arched over her sunglasses, then she slowly drew them off.  She didn't seem to be suffering from last night, other than being very quiet.  “A surprise?” she asked, her voice a bit throatier than normal.

Oliver nodded.  When Felicity didn't make a move to choose either hand, he raised his own eyebrow and gave each fist a small shake.

A flash of amusement appeared on her face, and then Felicity tapped her sunglasses against his right fist.  He opened it to reveal his bare palm, and she gave a small shrug of her shoulders.  So Oliver took her hand in his and opened his left fist to reveal a pearl ring.

“You lost your engagement ring last night,” he told her, his voice low.  

Before he could put it on her finger, Felicity gave a tug on her hand.  “A modern woman like me wouldn't wear a ring.  Besides, my uncle knows my ring was stolen last night.”

“What sort of fiancé wouldn't go out the next day to get a new ring for his woman?  Not me,” Oliver asked, not backing down.  He slid the ring on her finger and tried to project more confidence than he felt.  “Now we are engaged.  Again.”

Felicity eyed the ring--a gray pearl surrounded by diamond chips--and he found himself saying, “There's a tracker inside.  So I can keep watch over you.”

“Are you expecting something to happen to me?”  He thought she was trying for a certain amount of bravado, but she was not as successful as she might have hoped.  Or perhaps he had learned too much about her and could hear things in her voice that others couldn't.

Or he was just imagining the connection between them.

“No,” he said.  “But I am prepared for everything.”

The look she gave him at his words was long and probing.  Like she was looking for something, something Oliver didn't know or understand.  But even though he knew she shouldn't look at him--she shouldn't see him--Oliver couldn't look away.

And then with a nod, Felicity got into the car without a word of protest about wearing the ring or it possessing a bug.

He did not sigh with relief.  Because there had been nothing for him to have been nervous about.  Now he could focus on the mission, on playing his role at the party today: besotted, harmless fiancé.

“Is there anything I should know about your uncle?” he asked once he had joined Felicity in the car.

“No.  But I haven't seen him in eight years,” Felicity said.  She was looking out the window, not meeting his eyes, and Oliver thought that perhaps she was nervous.

“You will be fine,” he told her as he pulled the car out into the Roman traffic.  “I will be with you.”

A small nod was all the response she gave, so Oliver left her to her thoughts.  Meanwhile, as he drove them to the racetrack that was the party venue, he wondered how he would convince her uncle that a man such as Oliver Queen had gotten a woman like Felicity Smoak to say yes to his proposal.

This was not the kind of mission to which he was accustomed.  He was flying blind.  Merlyn would be better at charming uncles and playing the lover.  But then, seducing Isabel Vinciguerra would be like charming a snake.

Glancing over at Felicity, Oliver knew that his incompetence with romance aside, he had gotten the better mission.

And he would not fail.  He would not raise any suspicions.  He would keep Felicity safe.

No matter what.

End, Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

 

An open-air party in Italy was a charming, attractive event to consider.  An open-air party held at an Italian race car track was slightly less charming.  But the Vinciguerra event was held far enough from the actual racecourse to minimize the smell of rubber and gasoline.  Or perhaps the scent of heavy perfumes and cooking food did more to hide any unpleasant odors.

In a double-breasted suit of light summer wool, Tommy Merlyn gained entry after a bump-and-grab of a guest yielded him an invitation.  Ambling in through the kitchen, he entered the large white tent that shielded a glowing assemblage of Rome’s finest from the sun.  He took in his surroundings under the guise of examining some Vinciguerra memorabilia: citations and proclamations, a signed letter from Pope John XXIII, and photos of the Vinciguerras, including one of Slade Vinciguerra, accompanied by his young son, in front of a fishing boat that had been the first vessel in his fleet.

But braving the sun was Sebastian’s wife, Isabel Vinciguerra.  Her dark hair was piled on top of her head and her long, flowing pantsuit was in white--both style choices keeping her cool while flattering her exotic looks.  The long, thick gold and pearl chains around her neck and wrist displayed her wealth and privilege.

Yet most impressive of all, Tommy thought, was the look in her eyes.  A calculating, measuring one.  Mrs. Vinciguerra saw all and knew all, from her attitude.  She would not be fooled by schoolboy flattery or practiced seduction.  No, something unique was needed in this case.

Such as catching her attention by starting a fight with another guest.  As the hostess, Isabel would have to intervene to prevent any further disturbance to the party.  It worked like a charm: after insulting a man--Italians were so very touchy about their sisters . . . and their goats--and being punched, Tommy knew that once Isabel broke up the fight, she had to smooth his feathers.  Metaphorically speaking.

“I am Isabel Vinciguerra.  And you are . . .?”

“Jack Devaney, antiquities dealer.  I understand you have a very fine art collection in your family, Mrs. Vinciguerra,” Tommy said, pausing as Isabel stopped to greet a local countess.  When she introduced “Mr. Devaney” to the noblewoman, it was easy for Tommy to slip one of her bracelets.  

Which was also part of the plan.  Although he certainly enjoyed the simple pleasure of a little pickpocketing.  It had been a while since he had needed to do anything so basic, so this was a chance to test his skills and make sure he wasn't going soft.

Unlike the way his Russian counterpart was acting, if the looks Queen was sending towards the lovely Miss Smoak were anything to go by.  Tommy watched Queen attempt to talk to the German girl while Tommy engaged in chit-chat with Mrs. Vinciguerra.

“So you are an antiquities dealer . . . Are you hoping to examine my collection, Mr. Devaney?” Isabel asked, lifting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray.

“More to offer my services, Mrs. Vinciguerra.  My specialty is identifying gaps in a collection, and filling those gaps . . . by any means necessary,” Tommy said casually, but with a hint of pride.  Isabel only suspecting him of being an art thief: also part of the plan.

She wasn't the type of woman he normally approached.  Her hardness was a bit too close to the surface, rather easily seen.  Her eyes were more what you would expect to see over the barrel of a gun, rather than the kind you would want to see on your pillow in the morning.  Yet his personal preference had no place right now, and he could concede there was something refreshing in her directness.

“Ah, so you want to fill my gaps.  A charming offer, indeed, Mr. Devaney.  But I'm quite satisfied with my current dealer,” Isabel said, arching an eyebrow.

“Of course, Mrs. Vinciguerra.  Allow me to present this small token, if you don't mind, as an apology for disturbing you,” he remarked, wrapping around her wrist the bracelet he had lifted from the countess.

Isabel eyed the bracelet.  “You have clever fingers.”

“Just a preview of the quality of my services,” Tommy said blithely.  “If you decide in the near future that you might desire a change.”

Her eyes ran over him, even more probing than before.  “I will bear it in mind, Mr. Devaney.  If you will excuse me, I will return the Contessa’s property now.  Enjoy the rest of the party.”

“Before you go--” Tommy said, holding up a rope necklace in gold that he had plucked from her neck when she had interrupted his fight.

Gratifyingly, Isabel’s hand flattened against her breast and she looked down to discover it was true: he had robbed her.

“You have  _ very _ clever fingers,” she all-but-purred as she turned, allowing him to replace the necklace around her slim throat.  “I do believe I have some time tomorrow morning to discuss my gaps, Mr. Devaney.”

The fish was on the hook, he thought smugly as Isabel turned to greet an imposing dark-skinned man.  “Mr. Diggle, as a long-standing resident of Rome, perhaps you could offer Mr. Devaney some tips about the best places to find future clients for his business.”

“It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Vinciguerra,” Mr. Diggle replied, his voice deep and marked by a very distinguished British accent, but he couldn't fully hide the trace of his native Jamaica.  “Mr. Devaney and I ran into each other outside--my mistake--so this should make up for my clumsiness.”

Tommy smiled blandly, not letting show at all his dismay at who Mr. Diggle was: the person whose invitation he had lifted.  “Not at all, Mr. Diggle.  No further apology needed for such a trivial event, although if you would be willing to share your knowledge as a local expert, I would be indebted to you.”

“Wonderful,” Isabel said, sounding bored before she floated away.  And Tommy was left to interact with Mr. Diggle and wonder how Queen and Smoak were making out.

XXX

They had only just walked into the party and Felicity was already wondering if her sweaty palm was staining the sleeve of Oliver's suit.  Yes, she had gotten training from the British, but her work had always been behind the scenes, not out in the field like this.  And here she was, part of a team that was trying to prevent a nuclear catastrophe.  Not only was there the mission to perform--making contact with her uncle, convincing him off the validity of her engagement, which would establish the reason for searching for her father--but she also couldn't stop thinking about Oliver.  Wondering what was going on inside his head.

And he had such an attractive head.  His looks were not of the norm, not fully in fashion, yet they suited him.  Close-cropped hair in a sandy brown, a stubble-dusted jaw that managed to look rugged instead of slovenly, the faint scar that bisected his temple, and those eyes of his . . . 

Oliver Queen's eyes were blue and deep like the ocean.  And just like the ocean, his eyes held hundreds of secrets.  Secrets that she wanted to know, to understand, to soothe.  

Which was a ridiculous reaction, and a dangerous one.  Especially now with being in the middle of the nest of vipers, among Nazis who still burned with the desire to destroy the world.  If she thought about that, it made Felicity remember things she had kept buried.  Memories from the earliest days of her childhood, days that were shadowed by the events that tore apart her family and her country.  

“Do you see your uncle?”

The question, and Oliver’s quiet voice, snapped her out of her thoughts.  As did his warm breath washing against the side of her face.  “Not yet,” she said, craning her neck slightly to look around the party.  “Wait, I see him,” Felicity said, pasting on a smile and tugging on Oliver’s arm.  

Her uncle was a distinctive-looking man.  His hair was so blond that it looked white and his eyes were an icy blue.  His skin was slightly flushed, probably due to the glass of champagne he drained as Felicity and Oliver approached him.  His eyes met Felicity’s and they softened slightly.  But Felicity couldn’t help feeling a chill.  

“Uncle Dami,” she said, kissing each of his cheeks.  

“Can this be my little Felicity?” he asked, his hand patting her shoulder.  “It shouldn’t be possible that you are so grown-up.”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve seen me,” Felicity noted.  Which was true: while there had been letters and even an occasional phone call, it had been at least eight years since she had seen her uncle in person.  There was a big difference between a gawky seventeen-year-old girl and a twenty-five-year-old woman.  At least, she thought there was a difference.  In the mod style clothes that had been selected and purchased for her--selected with a great deal of feedback provided by the man standing at her side--she knew that she looked sleek and sophisticated on the outside.  

Shaking his head, her uncle gave her a fond look.  “You are a lovely woman.  The picture of your mother.”  He pressed his lips together, his eyes growing watery, and Felicity fought to keep her own tears at bay.  Although she suspected her feelings were more genuine than her uncle’s.  Something about him made her think of someone who was saying exactly what he was supposed to say, yet not meaning a word of it.

“Uncle Dami, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” Felicity said, pulling Oliver closer.  “This is my fiancé, Oliver Queen.”  

_ Showtime _ , she thought to herself.  

“Fiancé?  Oh, you are too young, Felicity!” her uncle cried before actually looking at Oliver.  And his expression grew even more dissatisfied.  “This is your fiancé?”

“Yes, this is my Oliver,” she said, resting the hand with the engagement ring on Oliver’s chest, just under the camera he had been using to take surveillance photos.  “He’s an architect.”  

“It is an honor to meet you, sir,” Oliver said, holding his hand out to her uncle.  

Damian eyed Oliver’s hand with a sour expression, then reached out and gave it a perfunctory shake.  “An architect--and a Russian one?  You look more like a powerlifter.”

Felicity watched as Oliver took that in, wondering how he would respond.  “I like to jog,” he finally said, making Felicity press her lips together from a strange combination of nerves and amusement.  

“Hmm.  And how did you meet my niece?” Damian questioned.

“I was sent to East Berlin to examine the wall and suggest improvements,” Oliver said, his voice a bit wooden.  

“And I just swept him off his feet,” Felicity said quickly, trying to make this relationship believable to her very suspicious uncle.

Oliver looked at her and it might have been her imagination, but she thought his eyes softened slightly.  “Yes,” he replied, his chest shifting under her hand as he took a deep breath.  “She was just . . . irresistible.”  

Dropping her eyes, Felicity tried not to let her cheeks flush.  Tried not to act like this was the first time Oliver had complimented her.  

“How long have you known each other?” her uncle asked, rudely interrupting the moment.

"Four months,” Felicity answered.  “It's quick, we know, but when it's right . . .”

“Right,” Damian repeated, his eyes flicking towards Felicity's hand on Oliver's chest.  “I see.”

Felicity dropped her hand, but she didn't need to be touching him to know that Oliver was tensing up.  “You disapprove, sir,” Oliver said.

“I do, because Felicity is a good German girl,” he replied, meeting Oliver's gaze.  “She knows the importance of bloodlines.  Why you never mate a thoroughbred with a cart horse.”

The insult was so pointed that Felicity couldn't let it go.  She automatically defended Oliver . . . since she couldn't point out how wrong her uncle was about her bloodlines.  No one in Donna’s family had known the truth about Donna . . . about the choice she had made when she was twenty.  “Uncle Damian, that is completely inappropriate.  You're my only family left with my father's disappearance, but if you're going to insult my fiancé--”

Her uncle interrupted her.  “Yes, you're right.  Family needs to stick together.  I apologize, Felicity--this has all been so sudden.”

“If you will excuse me,” Oliver said suddenly, not even waiting for either of them to speak before he turned and walked away.

“Charming manners your fiancé has,” Damian said with a sneer.

But Felicity was too distracted, watching Oliver walk away, to respond to another insult from her uncle.

XXX

Felicity glared at the closed door to the bathroom.  She didn't know what had gotten into him, but since their meeting with her uncle, Oliver had been distant and unpredictable.  First he had vanished, leaving her alone with her uncle who continued to disconcert her.  Perhaps it was disloyal of her to think that, but he did.

Then, when she was in the middle of talking with Sebastian Vinciguerra--well, she was talking and he was flirting--Oliver had shown up and dragged her off.  She had to give a hasty excuse for their sudden exit to her uncle, heightening his already-present suspicions.

Worst of all, in the car back to the hotel, Oliver had snippily told her that there was no need for her to flirt with Sebastian, since Merlyn had the Vinciguerra angle covered.  Clearly, there was no point in arguing with him, because how could you have an argument with a crazy person?  What did it matter if Sebastian Vinciguerra was flirting with her?  Sebastian knew she was engaged.  Not that it was a real engagement.  And even if she found Sebastian charming and handsome, he was a Nazi.

Merlyn swept into the suite, still dressed to the nines in his suit.  “Where's Peril?” he asked, taking Felicity in and making her feel even more rumpled than she already was, with her shoes off and sprawled out in her chair.

“In there,” Felicity said, nodding towards the double doors into the bathroom.  “He's pouting.”  

“Or licking his wounds,” Merlyn said.  He raised his voice.  “Did you beat up three young Italian boys in a men’s room?”

Felicity blinked and looked towards the door of the bathroom, lowering the paper slightly.  What had Oliver done?

After a long moment, Oliver grumpily said, “They had soft bones.”

“You need to control your temper,” Felicity remarked.  “It’s one thing when you take your anger at my uncle out on some defenseless boys--but just because Sebastian Vinciguerra talked to me does not mean you can act like a bear towards me.”

Merlyn eyed her.  “What did you think of Sebastian Vinciguerra?”

“He’s an athletic, good-looking gazillionaire playboy who’s offered me a job and made advances towards me.”

“He’s a Nazi!” Oliver barked from inside the bathroom.

“Yes, we’re all quite aware of that, Queen,” Merlyn said, clearly struggling for patience.  “But is he up to no good?”

Felicity tried to find the amusement in all of this, like Merlyn was always so able to do.  “If by ‘no good’ do you mean is he trying to steal me away from my fiancé?  The answer is yes.”

“That will not happen.”  

Now she just felt annoyed.  “I don’t know what you’re upset about,” Felicity replied to Oliver, dropping the paper.  “You’re not even my fiancé!”

Oliver yanked open the doors of the bathroom.  “As far as he is concerned, I am.  And for the purpose of the mission, I am.  So, like I said, it will not happen,” he said, or more accurately growled.

He turned towards Merlyn, clearly to stop losing this argument with her, and said, “Look.  This film has been treated to show evidence of radiation.  Isabel Vinciguerra has been near radioactive material in the last twenty-four hours.  They must have enriched the uranium.”  He held out a photo to Merlyn, who nodded.

“Well, I'm going to sleep on this information,” Merlyn said, taking the photo from Oliver.  “Good night.”

Felicity blinked and looked at Oliver.  “What does that mean?”

Oliver pursed his lips.  “It means he's going to break into the Vinciguerra factory tonight to investigate.  Which means I need to go.”

_ Nice to see the trust was being built between the two of them _ , Felicity thought.  Instead of saying that, though, she watched as Oliver pulled out the suitcase from under his bed--the one with his spy equipment.

“Shouldn't you talk to Merlyn and go together?” Felicity asked, taking a different approach.  “Two heads are better than one, you know.”

Oliver scoffed quietly.  “You would know all about that.”

Was he talking about Sebastian Vinciguerra again?  It was enough to make her stomp her foot and begin cursing him in German.  “I told you, the flirting was only to reinforce what we're trying to do here: prevent a nuclear war, or have you forgotten that with this bout of schoolboy jealousy?”

With eyes that burned with an icy blue fire, Oliver stared at her.  “I am not jealous,” he said, which nearly made Felicity snort with sarcastic laughter.

“You are the worst actor imaginable,” Felicity retorted.  “Good luck tonight.  I hope you find what we need so this mission will be over.”

And on that, she stormed off into the bathroom and slammed the doors.

She wasn't sure if she felt annoyance or relief at the fact that Oliver didn't try and make amends.  Through the doors, she heard a quiet Russian curse, then he loudly gathered his equipment, she supposed, and left with a banging of the suite’s door.

Her shoulders slumped, Felicity walked to the bedroom and changed into her pajamas.  With nothing to do but wait for Oliver and Merlyn to return, she might as well get some sleep.

The ringing of the phone next to her bed made her startle.  Reaching over, she picked up the receiver.  “Hello?”

“Miss Smoak?” the caller asked with a Roman accent.  “This is Luigi at the front desk.  I have a message for you.”

Felicity's hand gripped the receiver tighter.  “Yes, what is it?”

“Mr. Bull in room 304 wanted to apologize for the mistake with the puppies.”

The words made her heart sink.  She swallowed and did her best to sound calm.  “Thank you.”. Replacing the phone in the cradle, she closed her eyes and worried at her lower lip.

So the British were finally remembering that she was an agent, were they?  It was nice of them, given she had been gone from Berlin for three days now.

But that line of thinking would get her nowhere, Felicity acknowledged.  Now that she had received the coded message, she needed to call Diggle and find out what he wanted her to do.

And give him a warning that she was tired of waiting, and now that she was out from behind the Iron Curtain, she would not allow them to send her back.

Lifting the phone off the table and seeing it on the bed, Felicity took the receiver and unscrewed the mouthpiece.  The modulator that she had tucked inside was still there; it took her just a moment to wire the modulator into place.  Then, bypassing the hotel’s switchboard, she dialed room 304.

“Diggle.”

“You rang?” Felicity said, hoping the sarcasm was still audible through the static of the encrypted phone line.  

“Ah, Felicity.  I must thank America and Russia for lousing up my plans for you,” Mr. Diggle said with that same unflappable calm.

Was it any wonder that had happened, given that he hadn't even told her what his plans were for her?  “Just tell me what you want me to do,” she replied, knowing she wasn't going to like it.

XXX

If there was one thing Tommy Merlyn hated, it was being beaten at his own game.  That was why he had worked and honed his skills to become the best thief in Europe.  When he had been taken by the CIA, he had done the same until his value had increased exponentially.  A strategy he should have thought through more, he admitted to himself as he chewed on his midnight snack.  He was so good, he didn't think Malcolm would be eager to let him go when his sentence was up.  Still, the point was, Tommy Merlyn was the best.

Yet he had the discomforting notion that Oliver Queen wasn't just as good as him--he was better.

It had all started when they had met outside the Vinciguerra aerospace facility.  Not only had Queen already taken care of the searchlights on the plant’s exterior, he had an actual CO2 laser to cut through the fence.  No puny CO2-hardened clippers for the Red Peril, no.

Since it would be more efficacious, Tommy agreed to work with Queen.  Even though they didn't trust each other, they did work well together.  It didn't take long for them to automatically, without any communication, fall into patterns like Queen taking high and Tommy taking low when moving through the factory.

Still, the man wasn't perfect.  Giving some poor guard a Soviet knockout punch, just because the man appeared to be wearing the watch taken from Queen yesterday?  It was all well and good that it was his father's watch, but that kind of sentimentality would get Queen killed.  Or get sometime else killed.

Of course, knocking out the guard let them discover the secret area inside the factory, the area that contained a safe that held even more secrets.  Queen's gloating was silent but most definitely there.  So Tommy wanted to show that he was just as capable as the Red Peril, by flawlessly opening the safe.

He had cracked the Vortbinder-Lanszmann Model 7010 dozens of times.  He knew every variation on it.  Knew how someone could unofficially modify it.  His confidence in his ability to get that safe open was unmatched.

Tommy took a long drink from the bottle of wine in the lunch basket beside him, rolling the wine around in his mouth.  It was a bit galling that his confidence had been unfounded.  Because the Vinciguerras had rigged the safe with an alarm, even though it shouldn't have been possible to do so with the Model 7010.

In short: they had broken into the Vinciguerra factory and discovered a piece of a centrifuge--used for refining uranium, according to Queen--in the safe, but they had tripped an alarm and alerted the security forces to their presence.  They had attempted to make their escape by boat, but the harbor gate had been closed, trapping them inside the wall surrounding the harbor.  When Queen had attempted evasive maneuvers, Tommy had fallen off the boat.

All in all, he had not exactly distinguished the CIA’s prestige tonight.  But on the other hand, he was inside this truck, enjoying a nice sandwich and a very fine red, while his partner was trying to prevent himself from being captured.

And not very well, Tommy noted as he looked out through the windshield.  In fact--yes, they had just knocked him out and tossed him overboard.

It was a shame, Tommy thought.  He was just starting to get dry.  But he couldn't very well leave Queen to die.  Their mission had to come first.  And saving his life would do a lot to even the scales between them.  But most of all, Tommy didn't want to have to go back to the hotel and tell Miss Smoak that Queen was dead.

Pulling out the napkin he had tucked into the collar of his sweater, Tommy found the keys to the truck, helpfully tucked behind the sun visor, and started the vehicle.  Then, with perfect composure and sangfroid, befitting an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, he drove the truck off the pier and into the water, sinking the boat with the Vinciguerra guards.

With the enemy dealt with, Tommy left the rapidly-sinking truck and went fishing for a very large Russian fish.  In the dark water, it was a challenge.  But he did find Queen, blood oozing from a cut at his hairline.  Then it was just a matter of manhandling his catch to shore.

Once they were on terra firma, Tommy leaned over his Soviet partner.  “I certainly hope you don't require mouth-to-mouth,” he muttered as he pushed on Queen's granite-like chest.  “It's a shame Miss Smoak isn't here to provide that service, hmm?”

Another few compressions and thankfully Queen coughed, then rolled to the side to cough up the water he had imbibed.  “Yes, yes, get it all out.  More room out than in,” Tommy remarked as the Russian finished his retching with a round of dry heaves.

Queen gave him a dark look.  “You are not funny,” he rasped out.

“Of our two great nations, I think we both know who has a better reputation for comedy.  Unless you find the mass purges hilarious,” Tommy said, rising to his feet and holding his hand out to Queen.  “We need to get back to Rome.  They're bound to have alerted Isabel about the break-in, and I'm sure she'll want to investigate this matter thoroughly and personally.”

He still looked disgruntled, but Queen took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.  

“Agreed,” he replied, jogging after Tommy towards the perimeter of the factory, one arm wrapped around his ribs.

“You all right there, Peril?” Tommy asked.  Because after all that work to save his life, it would be a shame for Queen to die now.

“I am fine.  Let's go,” replied the stubborn Soviet, moving to take point.  Tommy rolled his eyes but followed him.

XXX

It was bad enough that the only method of transportation they could find was a mint-green Vespa scooter.  But Merlyn insisted on doing the steering, claiming that Oliver should rest.  But that was the problem.  If he wasn't driving, all he could do was sit on the back of the scooter, try not to fall off since he refused to hold on to Merlyn, and think.

And he didn't want to think now.  Because all he could think about was his failures.

Administering the special Soviet knockout blow called the kiss to that guard, just because he appeared to be wearing his father's watch, for example.  Because that was acting emotionally, placing value on possessions.  That was not the actions of a man committed to Soviet ideals, like he was.  And letting rank sentimentality nearly interfere with a mission was the height of disobedience.

He had put on a show for Cowboy, making it seem like his weakness was a positive because it let them discover the hidden room in the factory.  But weakness was weakness, no matter the outcome.

And he was not weak.  Not when it came to protecting the Motherland, not when it came to his emotions.  He could keep himself in check, stay stoic and unmoved, because that was what was required.

When Merlyn turned the scooter onto the side street that ran alongside the hotel, Oliver welcomed the chance to stop thinking.  And then the scooter came to an abrupt stop and Merlyn cursed.  “Isabel is definitely taking an interest in this.”  He nodded towards the main entrance of the hotel, where Isabel was visible.  She was climbing out of a Fiat convertible, a scarf wrapped over her hair.

Without delay, they climbed off the scooter.  Entering the hotel through the side entrance, and moving with the utmost speed, they spotted Isabel leaving the lobby, a key in her hand.  A key that would be for Merlyn’s room, Oliver knew.  And Merlyn knew that as well.  

In spite of the pain in his ribs, Oliver ran as fast as Merlyn did for the stairs.  They took them two at a time, only varying when Oliver veered off at his floor while Merlyn continued up another floor.  

Oliver burst into the room he shared with Felicity, digging for his case.  “What are you doing?” she asked, sitting up on her bed.  

Rather than answer, he kept searching through his bag, snatching up the radio that would pick up on the bugs he had hidden in Merlyn’s room.  There was no way Merlyn had found all of them, and he was proven right when the sound of squeaking bed springs, and then moans--feminine and masculine--filled the room.  

“What is--oh.”  Felicity’s cheeks flushed.  

With a grimace, he turned off the radio and put it back in his case.  “Merlyn is distracting Isabel.”  He lifted the case, trying to hide his wince as he slid it under his bed.  

“I’ll say.  What happened to you?”

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, and she rolled her eyes.  “You’re holding yourself differently.  So something happened to you.”  

“It’s nothing,” he said, brushing aside her concern and the warm feeling such concern gave him.  He sat down on his bed, intent on bending over to untie his shoes, but just sitting down made his ribs twinge.  

She rolled her eyes again and threw her legs off the bed, sitting on the edge and leaning forward.  Her hands immediately reached out and touched his sides firmly and Oliver flinched back.  

“That doesn’t seem like nothing,” she said, looking up at him.  Her hands prodded his ribs as she kept looking at his face and when she hit an extremely sore spot, he bit his lip hard to hold back a moan.  

“You don’t have to lie to me like this.  I don’t need to be protected from everything,” she said quietly.  The disappointment and warning in her voice was clear, but Oliver did his best to ignore it.  

“It’s nothing,” he repeated.  

Those blue eyes of hers searched his face, and then she looked down.  She pulled her hands away from him, leaving cool air in the wake of her warmth.  “I’m having lunch with my uncle tomorrow.  Just him and me.  I hope to press him for more information on my father.  So I should get to bed.”  

Oliver nodded.  “Yes.”  

But neither of them moved for a long moment.  Oliver didn’t want to move because of his ribs.  And he didn’t want to look away from her.  Because they had only known each other a few days, yet something was growing between them.  Something that made him weak and vulnerable to her.  He was fully aware of these feelings, yet he was powerless to stop caring.  

Felicity seemed equally caught up in him.  And that was even more troubling.  For she was sunshine in a shadowed place, and while she lit up his life, his shadows would just dim her light.    

So his focus should be on completing this mission as quickly as possible.  So Felicity could enjoy her freedom, out from behind the Iron Curtain and far away from anyone who could harm her.  

Standing up, ignoring the creaks of protest from his chest, Oliver nodded to her.  “Good night, then.  I will be quiet in the bathroom.”  Moving slowly, he turned towards the door to the en suite.  

“Oliver?”  

Her voice made him draw up short, yet he did not turn around.  He wasn’t sure he could look at her without doing something wrong.  Like telling her how she had almost kissed him before she had passed out the night before, and ever since, his lips had been tingling with the need to capture the kiss that floated in the air between them.  

“Yes?” he answered.  

“Everything is not always as it seems.”  

The words were odd.  Even odder was the tone of Felicity’s voice.  Like she was trying to give him a warning.  But what was she warning him about?  

His body ached from his injuries.  His mind was whirling from plots and counterplots.  And his normal practice of cold-hearted realism did not hold any appeal at this time.  What was appealing was a hot shower and a soft bed.  

But he still turned around to look at Felicity.  But she was now in bed, her back to him, and it was clear there would be no more talking tonight.  

So with silent footsteps, Oliver went into the bathroom to prepare for bed.  To prepare for tomorrow, when hopefully all of this would be over.

XXX

As he waited for Felicity to arrive, Oliver couldn’t help pacing slightly.  “You are sure Isabel Vinciguerra suspects nothing?”

“I gave it everything I had,” Merlyn said with an arched eyebrow.  “Believe me.”

The innuendo was clear and Oliver ignored it.  He was not going to comment on Merlyn’s activities.  Not when he had other concerns.  “I do not like this.  Felicity being all alone . . .”  

“Stop worrying,” Merlyn said distractedly, tinkering with the case holding the tracking equipment.  “She’ll be fine.  This lunch with her uncle could be key to finding her father.  And getting us what we need.”  

“It is like sending lamb to slaughter,” he retorted.

He had barely slept last night, in spite of his aching body, because he was going over what Felicity had said.  Wondering what it meant.  He had finally dropped off in the early hours of morning, and then awoke with a looming feeling of dread.  And the feeling was not easing, the closer they came to Felicity’s lunch with her uncle Damian.  

“Even if it’s just lunch, I have a meeting with Isabel later today.  One that will hopefully prove fruitful,” Merlyn said, tapping a pen against the centrifuge part they had retrieved the night before.

“More than your rendezvous?” Felicity asked she stepped into the room.  Oliver took one look at her and felt his chest tighten.  Her dress from the front, in a print of white, orange and mustard-brown, was demure.  But in the back, the dress fastened behind her neck and then swept to the sides, leaving a large triangle of her back bare.  His fingers itched to run down her spine.

Merlyn chuckled, then leaned back in his chair.  “Your tracker isn’t transmitting, Miss Smoak.  Have you turned it on?”  

She arched an eyebrow, clearly ruffled by Merlyn asking her such a basic question.  One thing Oliver had learned about Felicity Smoak:  she did not like being taken for a fool.  “Yes.  But perhaps you’d like to check?”  With that, Felicity climbed up onto the low table in the sitting area, then pulled up her dress to reveal the tracker, on a garter strapped around her slim thigh.  

To Oliver’s utter shock, Merlyn gestured to him.  “Be my guest.”  

“It--” he stuttered, both wanting and not wanting to refuse.  “It’s your tracker.”  

“You’re the expert,” Merlyn said, rising to his feet.  “I’ll be on the balcony.”  

With a saunter, Merlyn left the room, leaving Oliver alone with Felicity.  

He looked up at her, taking her in for the first time since last night.  He had left their room before she had woken, feeling the need for distance.  And now, he here was, thwarted by his so-called partner.  

Felicity gave him a challenging look, lifting her chin in the air and making Oliver fight a smile.  He rubbed his hands together, knowing that his fingers were often cold, then lightly touched her leg.

“Oh!”  She started, then looked down at him.  “They’re still cold.”  

“Sorry,” he said quietly, moving his hands slowly, inching towards the tracker.  

After a moment, when he still hadn’t done anything to fix the tracker, Felicity asked with what seemed a feigned casualness, “What are you doing down there?”

If things were different, he would tell her the truth: memorizing the feel of her skin.  For this was his only chance.  Instead, he gave her a flip answer.  “Trying not to get lost.”  

But when he finally began fiddling with the tracker, he could feel the change that went through her.  The way her muscles tightened and tensed.  

Oliver looked up at her.  “You’re trembling.”  

“Yes,” she said, looking straight ahead.  Then she turned her head and looked right at him.  “Because I’m scared.”  

Why was she scared?  Had she noticed something about her uncle--something she hadn’t shared with him?  Oliver swallowed.  “Everything will be all right,” he said, his voice low and sincere.  Trying to tell her that he would move heaven and earth to ensure just that.  

Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked down at him.  With the low shoes she was wearing and the height of the table, she was not even a head taller than him.  Looking up at her like this, he felt like a boy with a crush on an older girl.  And like that boy, all he wanted was a kiss.  

His eyes were drawn to her lips.  Her full, soft lips, covered in a cherry-red lipstick and gloss.  

He watched as she parted her lips, her breath washing over his face.  Oliver tilted his head up slightly, moving closer to Felicity, feeling the warmth of her body as she took a step as well.

One hand was wrapped around her leg by the tracker.  The other slowly settled onto her waist, holding her as he craned his neck, his lips nearly against hers--

“Everything turned on?”  

Merlyn’s voice was like a bucket of cold water, making Oliver jerk away from her.  In his head, he used every curse in every language he knew, before turning to glare at his fellow agent.  

Of course, Cowboy knew perfectly well what he had interrupted, based on the cocky grin on his face.  “Your uncle’s car has just arrived, Miss Smoak.  And it looks like your tracker is now working perfectly,” he said, looking over the tracking equipment.  “Peril will have no trouble keeping you in his sights.”  

“All right,” Felicity said, her voice sounding weak to Oliver’s ears.  She stepped off the table and picked up her handbag, leaving the room without a glance behind her.  

Oliver knew he should look away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off Felicity’s back as she walked away.  

“Shouldn’t you be going as well?” Merlyn prodded him.  

“Yes.  I am going,” Oliver muttered, giving his head a shake.  

He walked over to take the tracking case, only for Merlyn to say quietly, in a way that could be easily ignored, “Be careful there, Peril.”  

Since Merlyn clearly wanted him to ignore it, Oliver did just that.

End, Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying this fic, please let me know!  Thank you to the readers who have been supporting this fic along the way.  The action kicks into high gear starting with this chapter.

 

Felicity couldn’t help looking at the engagement ring Oliver slipped on her finger yesterday morning.  She knew it was bugged--even if he hadn’t told her, it wouldn’t take a tech genius to figure that out.  So he would hear everything she was going to say during her lunch today, while monitoring the tracking device on her thigh.  Because he was worried about her.

And had nearly kissed her.

Last night, Diggle had been very clear about her orders.  “At this point, due to the joint US-Soviet bungling, our best option is for you to reveal the true identity of your associates.  Position you as a daughter so desperate to find her father, she resorted to consorting with her enemies.”

“Are you sure?” Felicity had asked.  “It doesn't feel right, turning against them.  And both Queen and Merlyn still have use to us--if they’re burned, they won’t be able to help us.”

“I admit, it is hard to see what use they might serve, except for what I’m intending: the patsies.  And I am not exactly worrying about how your counterparts will take this.  This mission and your safety are my priorities.”

If she had pressed harder, she knew Diggle would batter her down with logic and appeals to put Britain first, since they had been the ones to protect her ever since her father's disappearance two years ago.

She supposed that was true.  But that didn't make what she was about to do any easier.

The Vinciguerra estate, the surprising destination for her lunch with Uncle Damian, was a villa in the classical style, about twenty minutes from the city.  When they arrived, Felicity and her uncle were escorted to the patio, where Sebastian Vinciguerra was waiting.  At least this would allow Oliver to keep her in his sights easily--and allow her to get right down to business, especially when Sebastian gave her the perfect opening.

“Your uncle thought we should have a chat,” he says, all traces of the playboy's practiced flirtation wiped away.

“Yes, we should.  Since I know you have my father here.  And that he is working for you.”

Her uncle, fidgeting with a grape, paused and looked at her, and Sebastian raised his eyebrows.  “And how would you know that?”

“Simple,” Felicity said, doing her best to make her voice hard and strong.  “Because my ‘fiancé’ is a KGB agent.  And the American your wife is dallying with?”  She waited for her words to sink in.  “He's with the CIA.”

Distantly, she heard her uncle say something about making a phone call.  She knew that Oliver was watching and probably boggling at what she was doing.  But all of Felicity's attention was on Sebastian.  On selling this.  He didn't appear very affected by the news that his wife was cheating on him, though.

Probably because he was evil.  He was more focused on how to use her to get leverage over her father, Felicity guessed.

She wondered what Oliver would make of her betrayal.  If her message from last night, that not everything was as it seemed, had stuck in his head.  But she had to stop thinking about him.  She had to clear her mind of anything but her mission and do exactly as Diggle wanted.

“You must tell me how you achieved this,” Sebastian said.  “How you fooled two intelligence agents.”

“I made them think they were using me,” Felicity explained, “when really, I was using them to get closer to you.  To find my father.”  She lifted the edge of her dress, revealing the tracker.  “I even let them track me, to keep them from developing any suspicions about me.  The KGB is watching us now, in fact.”

“A remarkable show of a daughter's love,” Sebastian said, an oily smile on his face.  “Our men will deal with your so-called fiancé; it would appear your engagement has been broken.”

Felicity let out a laugh she didn't really feel, hoping she wasn’t overplaying her part.

“I'm sure your father will be very touched to hear of your efforts to find him,” Sebastian continued.  “And even more by your presence.  His work ethic has been lacking lately . . . but with you there, he will no doubt recover his will.”

“So you'll take me to him?” Felicity asked, rising to her feet.

Sebastian's eyes flicked towards her uncle, who was speaking quietly on the phone with someone.  She would bet it was Isabel.  Being told all about Felicity's treachery, information that she would be eager to use against Felicity’s partners.  Former partners. 

She told herself it shouldn't matter.  America and Russia were so determined to gain the upper hand over the other that they didn’t care what happened to themselves.  So what if she turned her back on both of them?  Inevitably, this little partnership between Merlyn and Queen would implode, because there was no trust between the two men, just like there was no trust between the two countries.  Not when they each wanted to rule the world.  Both of them might claim they wanted to save her father, but even more important was for their side to win.  If they got her father's research, they wouldn't care if her father was killed.  

Although did that matter to Felicity?  The man had left her and her mother behind, withdrawn the protection that had kept them safe and hidden.  It was something like a miracle that it had taken the Nazis over a year to discover that Donna and Felicity Smoak existed within the facade of Delma and Frieda Schmidt.  And only the fact that everyone knew the war was nearly over, knew that Germany would soon be defeated, had allowed Felicity's mother to make the deal which had saved Felicity.  Only Felicity.

Perhaps that was why Felicity wanted to find her father.  To ask why he had left, knowing his wife and daughter were Jewish and that without him, it was only a matter of time before they would be sent to a concentration camp.

Yes, Felicity wanted to look her father in the eyes and ask him if the deaths of all the faceless individuals wiped out by his bombs hurt more than murdering his wife.  Only then could she feel truly free, truly out from behind the Iron Curtain.

“Your father will be so pleased to see you, Felicity,” her uncle said after hanging up the phone.  “I unfortunately have a matter to attend to here, but Sebastian will take you to Noah soon.”

She nodded, the memories of her past combined with her present betrayal sapping her strength.  Allowing Sebastian to take her by the arm, she went with him quietly.

XXX

“Because my ‘fiancé’ is a KGB agent.”

Through his binoculars, Oliver tried to read the lines of Felicity’s back.  She was standing on the patio of the Vinciguerra estate, facing Sebastian Vinciguerra as she threw himself and Merlyn to the wolves.  Since she was turned away from him--and even with the binoculars, he wouldn’t have been able to read her face if she was turned towards him--he could only stare at her back as he tried to figure out what she was doing.  

The only thing clear was that Felicity had revealed he was KGB and Merlyn was CIA.  What he didn't understand was why.

He didn't understand at all.

And as she kept speaking, he was torn between utter frustration and a nagging, insistent feeling, a feeling that he didn't have time for right now.  Not when he knew he needed to leave.  That he couldn’t watch Felicity, listen to Felicity, any longer.  Not if he wanted to remain safe.  And something about quickly gathering his equipment and running like hell from the dogs and the guards let him figure out that strange feeling.

That feeling?  It was hurt.  A humiliating combination of betrayal, shame, and rage, all because Felicity had tricked him and turned against them.

But how had she done it?  She had secrets, he knew that.  Maybe as many as he had.  But in all her interactions with him, he had detected no subterfuge, no duplicity.  Just clear, unvarnished truth in her actions and her words.  In how she had responded to him, in how she had conducted herself.

Had she been ordered by someone to kiss him, to keep him off-balance with sexual allure, but she hadn't been able to go through with such intimacy?  He knew she was new to this business; if this was her first assignment, she might not have realized she wouldn't be capable of kissing him.  

If that was the case, her failure to complete an objective had actually worked better than she could have imagined.  Because  _ not _ kissing Felicity had made him feel more uncertain, more out of touch with his equilibrium, than if they had kissed.

The sound of the barking dogs grew louder and Oliver put on an extra burst of speed.  He reached the fence surrounding the estate; without a care given to the sensitive electronics, he tossed his bag over the fence to the other side.  Then he leaped up, clinging to the chain link as he gained a foothold.  It was only a moment before he was up and over.  Snatching up his equipment, he made for the van in which he had travelled to the estate, climbing into it and preparing to drive away.

He needed to find Merlyn, tell him about Felicity's treachery, develop a new plan--

The weight of everything ahead of him hit Oliver like a ton of bricks.  And even more than the decisions to be made, there were the emotions.  The doubt, the betrayal, the lack of trust.  He let his head drop, let himself lean heavily against the steering wheel, as he tried to cope.

If only he was angry.  If only the fire burned in his veins, eager for the violence that would blot out these feelings.  But for some reason, he wasn't angry with Felicity for going behind his back like this.  It was more as if . . . as if he felt guilty.  For he must have failed her in some way, to cause  her to have done this.  To have chosen the Vinciguerras at this point.

With all his strength--which he wasn't sure if it was up to this challenge--Oliver started the van and began driving.  He moved down the road, putting some distance between himself and the villa, while he contemplated his next move.  

By now, Merlyn should be meeting with Isabel.  She would have been alerted to Felicity's revelations, and her tête à tête with Merlyn was probably going to be very different than either of them planned.  And it would end badly for Merlyn.

Oliver pressed his lips together.  According to his mission parameters, he should stay on Felicity.  She was being taken to her father; that was who Oliver was supposed to be worrying about, not some American cowboy.  But in this moment, it seemed to Oliver that Merlyn needed his help more.

And perhaps he just needed some more time to cope with Felicity's true nature.  To realize she wasn't really the woman that he had been falling for.

It did no good to lie to himself or pretend.  Oliver knew that he had been feeling something for the little blonde genius to whom he had been ‘engaged’.  Engaged was the right word for his feelings, in fact.  She made him feel alive and awake and part of something, like no one else ever had.

Whether it was all a lie or part lie, part truth, Oliver didn't know.  He would have to figure that out later, after he had found Merlyn and guaranteed his safety.  

And the fact that they had not immediately left the villa with Felicity made Oliver think that Merlyn would be taken to the Vinciguerra estate.  Without any intelligence otherwise, staying close to the villa made sense, since Felicity was still there as well.  He was only a quarter of a mile from the villa.  Just barely in range of the bug in her ring--which Felicity had not revealed to Sebastian.  

Reversing the van, he stopped long enough to open up his case and turned on the equipment.  He put his headphones on, then began driving back towards the villa.  As he drew closer, the crackles of static grew less frequent, allowing him to hear the sound of breathing, of footsteps.  Felicity was alone, he thought.  He needed to keep listening, in case she was present for some kind of conversation, something that was of importance.  So even though just listening to her breathe made something clench inside himself, Oliver kept the headphones over his ears until he reached the estate.  And then he took up a hidden position, watching the villa and searching for a way inside.  And through the waiting, he had Felicity to keep him company.  

XXX

Stepping into Isabel’s office at the Vinciguerra Shipping offices, Tommy thought to himself that clearly business was good.  The office was all clean lines and glass and pops of bright color, drawing the eye naturally to the large, floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the room.  Isabel was on the phone, but she pulled it away from her ear long enough to tell him to make a drink.  

Tommy did so, pouring himself a measure of Scotch and taking a sip as he gazed out at the harbor.  It was a lovely view, but somehow he doubted Isabel Vinciguerra really enjoyed it all that much.  

And it could be his imagination, or did his Scotch taste strange?  

With a shake of his head, he turned to face Isabel as she completed her phone call.   “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”  She paused and made a small moue of unhappiness.  “You look as if you had a sleepless night, Mr. Deveney.”  

So that was how she was going to play their rendezvous: bait him in order to see how he responded.  

“You don’t say, Madame Vinciguerra,” Tommy commented blandly.  He felt a slight dizziness, confirming that something odd was going on.  “This Scotch doesn’t seem to be helping, either.  Perhaps you added something to my drink.”  

“It’s so much easier to trust a drink you mixed yourself,” Isabel explained airily, like he didn’t know that.

“But how did you know I would drink the Scotch?” he asked, taking advantage of a nearby statue and its convenient pose to wedge his glass into its hand.  

Isabel, in her chair, eyed him.  Her hair was once again piled on top of her head and today she was dressed in a color-blocked jumpsuit, in white and black.  The long pearl earrings she wore swayed as she moved her head, in a manner he found somewhat hypnotic given his current condition.  

When he brought his eyes back to her face, he noticed how her attitude was icy and self-satisfied.  “I didn’t.  I laced all the drinks.”  She spun her chair around, peering at him around the tall, curving sides of the chair.  “You’ll find I leave very little to chance . . . Mr. Merlyn.”

It was only thanks to his years of thievery and spying that allowed his reaction to his real name to not show.  Or perhaps it was the oncoming unconsciousness from whatever he had been poisoned with.  But how did Isabel know who he was?  

“And here I thought I was doing so well.  I believed you had no idea who I was,” Tommy said, looking around the room

“Oh, you were doing well.  Very well.  The fault doesn’t lie in your performance, Mr. Merlyn.  Rather in your choice of partner.”  

That made him pause.  Queen had done this to him?  

“It’s a shame about Felicity,” Isabel continued, her voice incredibly arrogant.  “She told us everything.  Gave you up like an unwanted kitten--not unlike what she is herself.”  

That was unexpected.  Of all the people he had met in this line of work, Felicity Smoak was low on the list of those he would have expected to betray him.  Not to mention betraying Queen.  Because if she had dropped him into the hot water, she had also done the same to the Red Peril.

“What a shame,” he said lightly, picking up one of the bright pillows from a chair and punching it into shape.  Yes, it would do nicely.  He placed it at one end of the sofa.  “She seemed so innocent.”  

“You’re not the first man to fall for the charms of a pretty young woman,” Isabel said dryly and with a touch of disdain.  

If only she knew.  Queen was so tied up in knots by Miss Smoak at the moment, he couldn’t see straight.  And if he knew about Miss Smoak’s betrayal--which he probably did, given the sure-to-be-bugged ring he had put on her finger--Tommy could only imagine the path of destruction that he was making as they spoke.

But that was something to deal with later, Tommy knew.  Because for the time being, he was going to be out of commission.  He eased himself down on the sofa, adjusting his head to be fully supported by the pillow.

“What  _ are  _ you doing?”

Isabel’s voice was as confused as he guessed she would let herself be.  Clearly, she had not anticipated his actions.  

“I’ve been here before.  Drugged by an evil super villain who’s intent on destroying the world, I mean.  The last time it happened, I fell and hurt my head rather badly,” Tommy explained.  Wondering if the slur he heard in his words was truly there or only in his imagination.

When Isabel spoke again, her voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a tunnel filled with water.  “I’m afraid that won’t keep you from getting hurt.”  

Her fingers, tipped with scarlet nails, closed his eyelids with surprising gentleness.  “Sleep well, Tommy.”  

For some reason, her words sparked a memory in him.  Of his mother, wrapping her arms around him and cuddling him before he went to bed.  “Only my mother called me Tommy,” he mumbled, feeling the curtain of unconsciousness fall over him and accepting it calmly and readily.  Knowing that his calm was a false one, thanks to the drugs, for there was quite a bit to worry about.  

But that would have to wait.  

XXX

“Mommy says hello.”  

Slowly, Tommy opened his eyes, not surprised to see Isabel in front of him.  What was a surprise was the large syringe she held in her hand.  A syringe she must have used to inject him with another drug, this one to awaken him.  

Looking around as best he could, Tommy saw he was in a low-ceilinged, windowless room, other than the glass panes in the door straight ahead of him.  Perhaps a basement of some kind?  In front of him, beside the door, was a large, glass-fronted cabinet, with a table and chair in front of it.  Other than a desk lamp, the only other illumination in the room came from above him.  He guessed it was a bulb hanging from the ceiling.  

He wasn’t able to gain as much detail as he would have liked, since he was strapped into some kind of chair.  His ankles were strapped against metal leg supports, while leather straps went around his wrists.  There were bands around his waist, his chest and his forehead, ensuring that movement was nigh-on impossible.

Well, he had been in tighter scrapes than this, but it certainly wasn't going to be a picnic to escape.

“Perhaps you've heard of the Butcher of Belsen, the Dark Angel of Ravensbrück,” Isabel said, gliding around him, still holding that syringe.  She moved towards the table and gracefully took a seat, finally discarding the syringe.  “Or my favorite, the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse.”

Of course that one would be her favorite, Tommy mused.

“What few have realized was that these three individuals were, in fact, one man.  A genius at his craft, yet not at all content to rest on his laurels,” Isabel said with a cold delight in her voice.

And with that introduction, Damian Darhk stepped out of the shadows, a smile of childlike pleasure on his face.  “Mrs. Vinciguerra flatters me, but I will concede that there are few men like me still living.”. He sighed dramatically.  “The post-war tribunals took so many good men from our ranks.”

“The corps of torturers and sadists?” Tommy asked, striving to sound merely curious.

Damian’s smile twisted.  He pressed down on a pedal in front of Tommy's chair.  There was a momentary buzz, but then nothing.

His face fell.  “There is a glitch.  But I will fix it.”. Damian moved away, out of Tommy's sight but apparently behind him if the noises were anything to judge by.

Isabel smiled indulgently.  “I keep telling Damian he must update his equipment, but he's such a sentimentalist.”

Suddenly Tommy jerked as an electrical current coursed through his body.  Perhaps the shock was a blessing in disguise, as he has no time to tense his muscles before the electricity acted upon them, drawing them up tight and rigid.

Faintly, he heard Isabel let out a satisfied, “We have contact!”  She moved in towards him, close to him when he opened his eyes, once the electrical shocks stopped rolling through his body.

“I had hoped to stay and watch,” Isabel said, practically cooing the words, “but while the maestro is never in a hurry, I am, unfortunately.”  She let out a heavy sigh, then lightly brushed her fingers against his lips.  And with a breathy, “Goodbye, Tommy,” Isabel exited the room.

Damian returned to take the seat Isabel had vacated.  Something about the man had given Tommy pause, just from looking at his image in photographs.  In person, his deranged nature was easy to spot, faintly covered by a veneer of normalcy.  But then, when one had been a top Nazi torturer, sanity was probably not your leading characteristic.

As Damian lovingly explained his personal history, complete with photographs, Tommy asked if this was part of the torture.  The sarcastic comments were his only defense against the slow inevitability of the forthcoming abuse.  

“This page, the whole page, will be for you,” Damian said, sounding simply delighted as he spread his hand over the blank page in his scrapbook.  “And not in black and white, no, but in Kodachrome!  The colors . . . they are so real, you could almost taste them.”

That was so nonsensical--and troubling--that even though he knew Damian would enjoy the question too much, he had to ask.  “May I ask you not to eat my eyeballs?  Women tell me my eyes are my best feature.”

Damian let out a gleeful laugh.  “How droll,” he said, his face losing its humor and growing stern.  “But the time for laughter is over.  Now . . . now it is the time for screams.”

“I'm not going to--”

But Tommy's knee-jerk denial was cut short as the electricity arced through his body.  His eyes rolled back in his head while his entire body flailed in the chair, only the restraints keeping him from sliding to the floor from his shaking.

He had been physically tortured before, of course.  But this was something different.  More sustained than other attempts at breaking him.  Getting closer and closer to that line, to the point when he would have to make a decision: break or die.  Unfortunately, he didn't think Damian wanted anything from him.  Isabel was letting Damian play with him, allowing him to keep his skills sharp, but all she wanted was Tommy to be dead.

And soon, that might be what he was.

The electricity stopped and Tommy panted.  He could feel a trickle of blood running down his face.  His clothes felt rough and harsh against his sweaty, too-sensitive skin.  There was an unpleasant odor in the air, a faintly roasted smell that Tommy knew was coming from him.

Damian hit the pedal for another round, but the glitch struck again.  Tommy didn't know whether he should be relieved or not.  

But then, through his half-closed eyes, Tommy spied movement through the glass windows of the door.  Movement that he recognized and that Damian was unaware of, with his back to the doors. Doors that were slowly and silently being pushed open.

“Such equipment!  But you're lucky, because today, I'm in an old-fashioned mood,” Damian said.  “I think we'll start . . . with the pliers.”

“I never thought I'd say this,” Tommy replied through dry, cracked lips, “but I'm actually pleased to see you.”

XXX

“Doing all right, cowboy?” Oliver asked Merlyn, knowing a hint of concern had leaked into his voice.  But given the condition of his partner, concern was a mild reaction to what he was seeing.  In truth, Oliver felt real worry about Merlyn's health.  Not simply because they would soon need to flee the villa and complete the mission and his partner would be in substandard condition, but because . . . he did not wish for the American to be hurt.

Damian, his eyes wide, looked up at Oliver, who gave him a tight, feral smile.  “Hello,” Oliver said, before clubbing the man over the head, just enough to stun him into unconsciousness.  He caught Damian and let him fall to the floor.  Then he crossed to Merlyn.

“I hope this now makes us square for the other night at the Vinciguerra factory,” Oliver told Merlyn as he unbuckled the straps holding him in place.

“Hadn't even occurred to me to keep score,” Merlyn said, wheezing slightly.

“I do not believe you,” Oliver replied.  “Of course you kept score.”

Merlyn responded with a weak version of his smug, amused, know-it-all expression.  “I have plenty of qualities in which I am superior to you.  I don't need to bother remembering who has saved whose life more frequently.”

Feeling relieved, Oliver covered his emotions with a snort.  Then, he helped Merlyn lift himself out of the chair.  The American recovered quicker than Oliver would have expected, almost immediately pushing away Oliver's arm.  He looked at Damian with distaste, then turned to Oliver.  “What say we put him in the chair?”

“Fine by me,” Oliver said with a shrug of his shoulders.

They hoisted Damian into the chair, the movement reviving the man.  He rattled out that there was no need to use the chair on him, but the two spies ignored him.  

With Damian restrained, Oliver examined the set-up, pressing on the pedal out of curiosity.  A small spark made Damian jump and Merlyn, who had been tightening one of the straps, rear back.

“Sorry,” Oliver said.  He frowned.  “There is glitch.  I will fix it.”

“I'll talk,” Damian insisted.  “You don't have to do this--I'll tell you anything, everything!”

As Oliver looked at the wires, Merlyn asked whether Dr. Teller had enough enriched uranium for a bomb.

“We are much more advanced than that!  We have a nuclear bomb, nearly finished.  The Reichsmarshall will be arriving by submarine tomorrow at eight a.m. to accept it,” Damian spilled. “See?  No need to hurt me!” 

Oliver exchanged a look with Merlyn, then abandoned his fiddling with the power cables to face Damian.  “Where is the bomb?  And where is Felicity?”

“What happened to her?” Merlyn asked, for once sounding serious.

“Sebastian Vinciguerra took her to her father.  Who is on Vinciguerra Island, the family's private retreat.”  Damian smiled widely.  “Where the bomb is.”

The fear that churned Oliver's guts was sudden and harsh.  Felicity, that close to a nuclear bomb?  A young, inexperienced female, in the midst of the lions’ den?  He didn't know if she was a well-trained spy or a desperate daughter, but she was in danger.  And his fear and worry drowned out the hurt and betrayal.

On instinct, Oliver pressed down on the pedal, shocking Damian.  

“Don’t get like that,” Tommy argued.  “She fooled me, too.”  

“It’s different,” Oliver muttered.  He hit the pedal again, holding it down for a moment longer, until the electricity once again shorted out.

Merlyn grasped Oliver's arm, pulling him away.  “My associate and I will discuss this outside,” he told Damian.  With firm pressure, he dragged Oliver into the hallway.

“What should we do with him?” Merlyn asked, jerking his head backwards to indicate Damian.

Oliver swallowed, making himself focus on the question.  “It's up to you,” he replied.  “You're the one he's been working over.”

“As satisfying as killing him would be, he's a wealth of information.  You don't even have to hit him for the secrets to start pouring out of him.  Like coins from the nickel slots.”  The disdain in Merlyn's voice matched Oliver's own feelings.

“But we know what will happen to him, if we allow him to be questioned,” Oliver countered.

Merlyn sighed.  “Yes.  He’ll spill his guts in exchange for immunity.  He’ll never be punished for his crimes.  Or worse--they'll want him to work for us.  Give him a comfy deal and present him with all the playthings he likes.  God knows a man with his skills is always in demand.”

“Mmm,” Oliver muttered distractedly.  What was that smell? Like roasting meat . . .

Turning his head, he noticed a flickering orange light on the side of Merlyn's face.  It appeared like the light was coming from inside the room behind them.

At the same time, Merlyn noticed the light, too.  In unison, the partners turned their heads and saw Damian Darhk surrounded by flames.

They both watched for a moment, amazed at having the decision taken out of their hands.  It was a rare occurrence in their line of work.

“Huh.  I guess I fixed the glitch,” Oliver finally said.

Merlyn nodded, a moue of disappointment on his face.  “Damn.  My jacket was in there.”

“Pity,” Oliver said.

“A very great one,” Merlyn commented before turning to him.  “Well, let's get out of here and find out where this Vinciguerra Island is and how we'll get your girl back.”

_ Your girl _ .  The words made Oliver's already-unsteady stomach flip.  “She--she is not my girl.”

“Of course she isn't, I'm sorry,” Merlyn said.  “Your fiancée.”

Oliver glared at him.  “She betrayed us.”

“She certainly gave that impression, didn't she?” Merlyn asked in what appeared to be a rhetorical manner.  Because he didn't answer Oliver's silent question, just took off down the hall.  

Was it all an act?  What made her do it?  Was it, as he had briefly considered earlier, only partly true?

_ Everything is not always as it seems. _

Why had she says that to him last night?  Was it a hint of what was to come?

Shaking his head, Oliver reminded himself that his focus should be on the mission, not on a blonde who had betrayed them.  Might have betrayed them.

By the time they exited the villa, smoke from the fire in the basement was beginning to seep out through the cracks in the foundation.  The tendrils of smoke were immediately dispersed by the slowly-spinning rotors of a helicopter, sitting on the front lawn.  And the man who was climbing out of the helicopter . . . didn’t Oliver know him from somewhere?

XXX

As they approached Vinciguerra Island, Felicity tried to keep her thoughts on order.  Tried to remember her training, haphazard and patchy as it had been, so she could remember what was important.  What the mission was:  get her father free of the Vinciguerras, recover his research, and get the hell out of here.

But all she could think about was Oliver.  About whether he could forgive her for this.  If he regretted their missed kisses like she did.  

And when she told herself to focus, then she had to think about her father.  About how he had abandoned them.  His young, beautiful, loyal wife and his small, precocious, loving daughter.  She had been a different person before her father left: more open, more enthusiastic, more innocent.  But a part of her had died when her mother had told her to go with Herr Schmidt and be a good girl.  Because Felicity was smart.  She knew, as Donna walked away, that she would never see her mother again.

Swallowing, Felicity watched as Vinciguerra Island grew larger in the window of the helicopter.  To add to her inner turmoil, her stomach had been roiling the entire flight.  It was bad enough to fly in a plane, given her fear of heights.  Flying in a helicopter was a million times worse.

The copter finally sat down on a landing pad, on a wide expanse of concrete that looked like both roof of a sunken structure and a minimalistic patio.  Sebastian gestured for her to follow him, not bothering with words over the noisy hum of the helicopter's still-rotating blades.  Ducking her head, she followed him.

Sebastian led her to a concrete table, surrounded by chairs that were empty, except for one.  As she approached the man sitting in the chair, Felicity found herself pushing up on her glasses.  Trying to look like . . . she didn't know.  After all this time, she wasn't ready to see her father for the first time in eighteen years.

Dr. Noah Teller rose from his seat slowly.  Felicity remembered her father as tall, with dark blond hair and keenly intelligent blue eyes.  He was still tall, but his body had thickened slightly around his waist and his hair was more gray than blond.  And his eyes . . . the intelligence was still there, but Felicity thought she saw signs of weariness.  Like his mind had been worn down, dulled by horrors and choices.

She wondered what she looked like to him.

What had Digg told her to do?

“Felicity,” her father said, his voice still low and soft like she remembered.

Without a word, she walked past him, towards the seating area.  She gazed out towards the sea, trying to . . .

Oh, what was she doing?

Turning around, Felicity faced her father.  “Father,” she said, her voice breaking a little.  

Thankfully, Sebastian had withdrawn out of earshot, but he was clearly watching then, even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes.

That meant she could talk to her father.  Really talk.

“ _ Frölich _ ,” her father said with a small sniff, using his old nickname for her.  The nickname both her parents had used for her.  He didn't say anything else, looking as overcome as Felicity felt.

“How could you leave us?”

The words were quiet, but every scrap of pain and heartbreak and loss that Felicity had ever felt--that she still felt--were infused in the five words.  She took a step closer to him, then another, until she was less than an arm's length from him.

“How could you leave, knowing what could happen to us?” Felicity asked again, her voice breaking.  She balled her hands into fists at her side, waiting, waiting like she had for eighteen years.

When he stayed silent, Felicity felt her composure vanish.

“How could you?” she cried, lifting her fists and pounding them on his chest.  “She's dead because of me and because of you!”

“Shhhhh,  _ Frölich _ ,” her father whispered in her ear, wrapping his arms around her and trapping her fists between them.  “I had no choice.  I had to go, or all of us would have died.  I was willing to stay.  It was your mother who told me to leave.”

Using all her strength, Felicity pushed back on him, breaking free of his hold.  “What?” she said, her voice cracking.

“Your mother loved you more than life.  And more than me.  She told me to go, because she knew how she was going to keep the two of you safe,” her father explained, his arms hanging by his sides.  “She knew I couldn’t do that anymore.  It was up to her.”

He paused and gave her a broken smile.  “And she did it.  She saved you.”

Felicity turned away and screwed her eyes up tight.  Picturing her mother, picturing the blonde hair and big smile that dazzled you enough to miss the determination, the courage.  The qualities of which Felicity hoped she had inherited enough to be able to do this.  

Lifting up her glasses, she quickly wiped her eyes, hoping her mascara hadn’t smudged too badly.  Then she looked back to her father and spoke quietly to him in German.  “The Vinciguerras believe I am going to encourage you to finish your work on the nuclear bomb.  But I don’t want that.  Is there a way to sabotage it?”

“Perhaps . . .” he said, his forehead wrinkling.

“I need more than ‘perhaps’, Father.  Can the bomb be tampered with?  Booby-trapped, disabled, something?” Felicity said, pressing her case.  She kept her body language a bit stiff, a bit reserved, hopefully leading Sebastian to believe they were still talking about personal matters.

He shook his head, his hands rubbing against his pants, the mannerism so out-of-place with her memories that she realized yet again how the years had not been kind to him.  He was a brilliant man, yet his brilliance had led him right into the clutches of people like the Vinciguerras.  And it was up to Felicity to get him free.  

She reached out and rested her hands on his shoulders.  “We will find a way.  And then I will be able to take you somewhere warm, where you can read and think, without any distractions or disagreeableness.  Would you like that?  If not that, something else, somewhere else, but Father . . . I promise you, you will not have to make these kind of choices ever again.”

Her father searched her face, then nodded slowly.  “Yes, Felicity.  I . . . I would like that.”  

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian approaching them.  “Hug me, Father,” she whispered.  

Thankfully, he obeyed her, wrapping her up in a warm hug.  Felicity let her eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments while she returned the embrace, then turned to look at Sebastian . . . who was now accompanied by Isbael.  

“My father has been unwell.  That made self-doubt set in.  But with my help, he’s confident he’ll be able to finish.”  Her eyes flicked back and forth between Sebastian and Isabel, feeling her nervousness increase yet doing everything she could to hide it.

“A daughter’s touch,” Isabel said, gazing at them unblinkingly.  

And in that moment, Felicity Smoak resolved that the Vinciguerras would not win.  Because if they did, her father would be truly lost to her, and she refused to lose her father again.

End, Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the hardest chapter of the whole fic to write, since there was so much action and so much that had to be covered. I hope you enjoy it!

 

“Mr. Merlyn, Mr. Queen.  Good to see you,” said Mr. Diggle as he strode towards them, speaking loudly over the noise of the helicopter.  “Come aboard and we’ll see what we can do to save the world, hmm?”

Tommy nearly groaned.  Of course Mr. Diggle was a spy--he had that cocky, know-it-all attitude that British spies must have perfected by the Napoleonic Wars.  But he didn't quite understand why the British were getting involved in this operation.

Climbing onto the chopper, Tommy took a seat, while Queen took a seat on the opposite side.  His Russian counterpart had been very quiet, which Tommy took as a bad sign.  Clearly, with whatever was going on between Queen and Miss Smoak, her apparent betrayal and now capture was affecting the Russian.

As far as Tommy could tell, Queen hadn’t lashed out, like he had with the Italian boys yesterday.  For now, he just seemed withdrawn, trapped in his own head.  If he started to do that finger fidgeting thing, though, Tommy knew that things were about to get bad.

The Vinciguerras had better hope, for their sakes, that things didn't go bad.

Mr. Diggle handed each of them a headset and nodded for them to put them on.  Tommy did so, and within moments heard Malcolm's voice.

“You are to report to Commander John Diggle, British Military Intelligence, for the remainder of your mission.  He will provide the resources to get you and Queen onto Vinciguerra Island, where you can disarm the warhead and acquire Dr. Teller’s research.”

From the look of his face, Queen was getting similar instructions from his own handler.  Tommy wondered, though, if he was also being ordered to kill his partner, like Tommy was.

“Obtaining that research is the highest priority,” Malcolm informed Tommy, as if he wasn’t aware of that fact.  “Kill the Russian if you have to.”

He thought it was likely Oliver had received the same orders.  For all their differences, America and Russia thought the same way about a lot of things.  So Tommy would have to be on his toes if he didn't want to get killed--or be forced to kill.

As soon as their handlers were done, Diggle sat down, speaking to them through the microphone in his own headset.  “All right, gentlemen, if we're going to stop the Nazis, that means we have a luxurious fourteen hours to pull this off.  We will get you onto the island where you can take care of the bomb and get Dr. Teller's research.  Oh, and there's the small matter of retrieving my agent.”

That immediately caught Tommy's interest, as well as Queen's.  “You have British agent here?” Queen asked, his voice crackling with static over the communications system.

“Oh, she's not British.”

“She?” Queen asked dumbly as Tommy rolled his eyes.

“It's all starting to become clear, because it's all too ironic otherwise,” Tommy said.  “Felicity works for you, doesn't she?”

Diggle gave Tommy a look that implied he wasn't impressed with Tommy's powers of deduction.  “Well-spotted.  We knew that Dr. Teller's Nazi associates would eventually come looking for his daughter, so we recruited her and waited.  Instead of Nazis, though, we got you two.  And I must thank you for nearly ruining two years’ worth of work.”

“But she betrayed us,” Queen said.

“On my orders,” Diggle said, eyeing Queen.  “You were about to be made, Queen, thanks to your overactive fists.  So I told her to reveal you and Merlyn before they found out what you really were.  Allowed us to keep some skin in the game, so to speak.  She knew you were listening so she gave enough time for your average Russian agent to escape.”

Diggle paused, an eyebrow raised.  “Of course, you're not an average Russian agent, are you, Queen?  You’re special.”  

It wasn't Tommy's imagination, he thought, that John Diggle seemed more interested in Queen than Tommy himself.  It made him wonder how much Diggle knew--or if Felicity had been talking to her handler about the KGB agent.  “So why do you need us?” Tommy asked, putting a slight emphasis on the word ‘us’.

“Ah, well, Felicity was a bit too effective in selling herself to the Vinciguerras.  I thought she would be able to return to Rome, but instead, they took her to her father.  So now she's on Vinciguerra Island and out of reach.”

Queen looked too stunned to be of any help right now, but that was all right.  Tommy had figured out what the situation was.

“Let me translate that into English,” Tommy said.  “You told her to drop us in it so you'd be clear to gather the intel.  Only now you've lost Felicity and you need us to go save her.”

The look on Diggle’s face could have frozen a river in the Amazon.  “That is a bad translation, but I suppose it makes enough sense for you to get the gist of the idea,” Diggle said, before he melted slightly.  “Yes, we need your assistance to recover Felicity.  Which should be no problem for you two, since I believe you're as fond of Miss Smoak as I am.”

Diggle’s gaze rested on Queen for an extra beat and Tommy barely held back a smirk.  At least that answered Tommy’s earlier mental question about Diggle’s knowledge of the relationship between Felicity and Queen.  An unexpected pleasure for Tommy during this mission had been witnessing little Felicity tie Queen into knots.  It appeared Diggle had experienced the same amusement, although there was a certain fatherly overprotectiveness in his regard of Queen.

The forces buffeting the helicopter grew somewhat more intense.  Queen looked through the window over his shoulder, then said in confusion, “What is that?”

Tommy craned his neck and caught a glimpse of a large vessel, its flat surface wide and unobstructed.

“That's an aircraft carrier,” Diggle said.  “For a special agent, Queen, you're not having a very special day, are you?”

XXX

From a young age, Felicity had known she was different from the other children she knew.  Her brain seemed to work differently from theirs.  Faster, more efficiently.  When some of her playmates were struggling to learn the alphabet, Felicity was already starting to read simple books.  She leaned Yiddish from listening to the conversations between old women in the marketplace and from their maid.  And the first time her father had put a screwdriver in her hand, she had wrapped her chubby, clumsy fingers around it and used it perfectly.

But then the war started, and her father left, and all the dreams of a bright little girl--attending school, visiting libraries and museums, studying for her future career--were stripped away.

Watching her father work, Felicity became painfully aware of her lack of knowledge.  Of the gaps in her self-developed education, its curriculum based on the books Donna had been able to get for her and the classes Herr Schmidt had grudgingly allowed her to take.  

Not only were there subjects she had little knowledge of, her interests were in different areas from her father's.  Of course, even if she could have helped, she wouldn't have wanted to assist a group of Nazis who were developing a nuclear weapon.  But because of her lack of knowledge, she was relying on her father to come up with ways to disable the warhead, so it would not work properly.

But she just couldn’t fully trust her father.  So she watched the scientists working, and listened as her father explained concepts to her, and observed how close they were to being done, while still looking for some way she could sabotage the warhead, despite her lack of knowledge.

Her father seemed to be thinking the same way, because after explaining the targeting lenses to her, he showed her a second lens.  Guessing that he wanted to swap the lens in his hand with the one in the bomb, she looked for a distraction.

It was easy to find, since there was something that had been troubling her since she had walked in:  there were two missiles in the lab. 

“What's going on with that one?” Felicity asked, gesturing to the missile on the far side of the workshop.

“That was part of Otto’s work with coupling devices,” her father said, gesturing to the rotund scientist standing next to Felicity, on the other side of the warhead from where her father was working.

Felicity turned to Otto and smiled.  “What does that mean, a coupling device?”

As Otto explained that it was a way to link two missiles, allowing them to hit the same target and maximize destruction, Felicity did everything she could to fully hold his attention.  So he wouldn't notice her father switching the lenses.

But it was all for nothing.  Within two minutes, Isabel Vinciguerra swept into the lab, trailed by her husband.  “Dr. Teller, I must know if the warhead will be ready in time.”

“It's nearly done, just a few more minutes--” her father says, only for Isabel to snap her fingers.

“Come, Dr. Teller, you know you shouldn't lie to me.  Not when I have cameras everywhere.”

Felicity felt her heart sink.  It had been too much to hope that no one would have noticed her father's attempt to undermine his own work.  But it had been their best chance.

And when Isabel raised a small black pistol and pointed it at her father, Felicity knew she had failed.  She wouldn't be able to sabotage the bomb--she didn't know enough to do it without risking some kind of awful result, like disturbing the enriched uranium and unleashing deadly radiation.

But even worse was the feeling that she was about to lose her father all over again.

“Fix your clumsy attempt at sabotage, Dr. Teller,” Isabel said coldly, turning slightly to point the pistol at Felicity.

“Yes, yes,” Dr. Teller said, looking at Felicity with guilt and apology in his eyes.  Guilt that he hadn't been able to short-circuit the bomb, apology that he was letting her down.  And that he was trying to put her first, instead of doing everything he could to destroy the bomb.

It made her remember what he had told her, about her mother sacrificing her husband for her daughter.  And now her father was sacrificing himself for her.

“No,” she whispered, feeling her grief swamp her.  But then her anger sparked to life and she glared at Isabel.

“Come, come, we know how this game is played,” Isabel said, sounding like she was trying to impart a lesson to Felicity.  “There's no shame in giving up when you aren't able to win.  And because I hate to lose, I made sure I held the most important cards.  Like Dr. Teller's beloved daughter.”

“You're wrong,” Felicity said, the words coming out clipped and harsh from her fear.

Isabel sighed heavily.  “Oh, really?  Do tell me how, when I'm the one forcing your father to do my bidding.  When I’m the one with the gun pointed at you.”

“Enough,” her father barked, stepping in-between Isabel's gun and Felicity.  “It is done.  The bomb is complete.”

With a snap of her fingers, one of the other scientists checked the warhead and nodded.  “It is good, Signora Vinciguerra.”

Isabel checked her watch.  “And with three minutes to spare!  Well done, Dr. Teller.”

There was no warmth in her voice.  Merely satisfaction.  She nodded to the guards, who grabbed Felicity's arms as Isabel swung her gun to point at Dr. Teller.

“Take her away,” Isabel said, her eyes not leaving Felicity’s father.  “Now, hand over your research, Doctor.”

“No--” Felicity said, trying to break free of the iron hands gripping her arms.  “No!”

Snapping an order in Italian, Isabel gestured for the guards to take her away.  But she wasn’t going to go easily--Felicity struggled the whole way.  Struggled until there was the sound of a gunshot.  And then she went limp, the guards practically carrying her.

“No,” she said again, but this time, weakly.  Not wanting to believe it.  She had only just got her father back . . . there was still so much for them to talk about, so much to uncover.

But they would never get the chance now.  Because her father was dead.

She wanted to break down.  Run back to the lab and rip the gun out of Isabel's hands, use it on her and keep her from hurting anyone else.  She wanted to start crying, sobbing and wailing.  She wanted Oliver to be there, to wrap those arms of his around her and whisper in her ear that everything would be all right.

Yet no matter how much she wanted all of those things, none of them would happen.  She had to act like an agent, and that meant she had to focus on how to keep the Vinciguerras from delivering the warhead.  

Felicity gritted her teeth and lifted her head.  Stumbling a little, she got her legs back under her and walked under her own power.  She let the tears stream down her face, but her eyes watched where the guards took her, observed the fortifications of the castle, looked for weapons.

If she couldn't save her father, perhaps she could still save the world.

XXX

Since Oliver did not believe in lying to himself, he admitted to himself that he was compromised.  Too compromised to be able to match Merlyn and Diggle in their verbal chess match.  Ironic, as he was an international master, the level just below grandmaster in the chess hierarchy.  

But Felicity Smoak was a greater challenge than any chess match.

She was a British agent.  She had given nothing away, had shown absolutely no signs of working for another government.  Not until she had betrayed them--had been ordered to betray them.

In order to protect him.

Did she follow her orders without question?  Did she feel a twinge of guilt for what she had to do?  Or did she feel that it didn't matter what happened to Merlyn and himself, as long as Britain recovered her father and his data?

Everything was moving so fast.  He just wanted a few moments with Felicity, a chance to look into her eyes and see what kind of person she was.  Whether she was the woman he had begun falling for . . . or the agent he really should have suspected her of being.

Giving his head a shake, Oliver forced himself to push aside his thoughts.  They had landed on the aircraft carrier and it was time to learn what the rescue plan was.

It was simple and straightforward: the British naval forces would keep the Vinciguerras busy while Merlyn and himself would sneak into the island, find Felicity and Dr. Teller, and recover the warhead.

During the two hours before night fell, Oliver managed not to think much about Felicity.  If the mission was to succeed, he had to be prepared: properly dressed, his gear checked, and maps consulted.  Fixing the plan in his head, making sure he could follow each step without having to pause and search his memory.

Merlyn kept eyeing him as they got ready, but he surprisingly held his tongue until they were on the launch to Vinciguerra Island.  Then, under the cover of the motor and the ocean spray, he turned towards Oliver.  

“You go after Dr. Teller.  I’ll search for the charming Miss Smoak.”  

“Do you think I cannot stay focused?” Oliver asked, trying to look like he was adjusting his weapon and not fidgeting.  

His counterpart rolled his eyes.  “I think if you were able to stay focused, I wouldn’t need to have this conversation.  But you are very worried about Miss Smoak.”  

The slide on his rifle was jamming.  Oliver shoved at it forcefully, getting it into place, and then looked at Merlyn.  “I am.  So I will be looking for her, and you will look for her father.”  

Clearly, Merlyn heard in Oliver’s voice that there was no further need for discussion.  And besides, they were at Vinciguerra Island.  

It went like clockwork: the naval forces under Admiral Shrieve pinning down the Vinciguerra guards under cover of darkness, Oliver and Merlyn making their way into the villa perched on the highest point of the island.

When they penetrated the villa, Oliver moved side-by-side with Merlyn, stepping quietly through the building with their weapons raised, ready to take out the enemy.  Once again, like when they had broken into the Vinciguerra factory, they anticipated each other’s movements, Merlyn naturally going low while Oliver took high.  It seemed like they just might succeed.

But then they stepped into a room that seemed to be set up as the laboratory.  A room that looked ransacked, even before you noticed the body on the floor.  

Oliver refused to look at the man just yet.  He drew a radiation detector out of his pocket, scanning the table at the front of the lab, hearing the clicks as it picked up the telltale signs of radioactive material having been present.

“Looks like we’ve found poor Dr. Teller,” Merlyn said, eyeing the body.  

Taking a breath, Oliver glanced at the man stretched out on the floor, a man with a tall frame and graying blond hair, his eyes open wide in shock.  Eyes that looked eerily like Felicity’s.  

“The bomb was here,” Oliver said, trying to act like that was his first priority.  But without waiting for Merlyn, he stormed out of the lab, shooting two guards as he went.  Because with the number of men still in this building, the Vinciguerras must have only just left.  So Felicity might still be in the villa, or at least close by.

And he would not allow himself to lose her.  Not when he was so close to finding her.

Moving through the corridors, something in one of the rooms caught his eye.  It was a small cell with a heavy door.  He took a step back and looked into the room again, feeling his mouth go dry.  

Felicity’s purse, on a cot, discarded like she wouldn’t need it any more.  

He stared at the purse, noticing how it was open enough for him to see what she kept in her purse: a handkerchief.  Probably for cleaning her glasses, he thought.  A handkerchief that looked familiar . . . like the one he had handed her on the plane to Rome, when she had been fussing with her glasses, trying to remove some dust from her lenses.  

Whatever Felicity had done, whatever she had been ordered to do, none of it mattered anymore.  He only knew he would not let anything happen to her.  She would not end up like her father.  Because he, Oliver Queen, would tear apart the world to save her.  

A crackle of static, and then Merlyn’s voice came out of his radio.

“Oliver.  Oliver, come in.”  

It was the first time Cowboy had called him by his name.  That made Oliver tense up, even more than the tone of Merlyn’s voice.  Oliver knew that his news must not be the good kind.  

Grabbing the radio, he said quietly, “I’m here.”  

“Sebastian has Felicity and the bomb.  They’re at the entrance.”

Without bothering to say anything to Merlyn--without even realizing he had dropped the radio--Oliver took off for the entrance of the villa.  But he was too far away.  He would need to find another route if he didn’t want to be completely behind, if he didn’t want Sebastian to get away with Felicity.  

Fortunately, he had seen a garage earlier, when he had entered this corridor.  One with vehicles that would allow him to make up the distance.  

Namely, motorcycles.  It was just the matter of selecting the fastest one and driving with all his strength and skill, so he could catch up with Sebastian and Felicity.

XXX

Other than being able to recover Oliver’s watch--something that Tommy was going to enjoy gloating about when he returned it to Oliver--this mission had been FUBARed from the start.  There were too many guards, too much evidence that the Vinciguerras had superior numbers.  Thanks to the delays, they were too late.  Dr. Teller was dead.  And not only did Sebastian and Isabel have the warhead, they also had Dr. Teller’s research.

At this point, he was bracing himself to discover that Felicity was dead.  And wondering what he was going to do with Oliver if that was the case.  

So it was a bit of a relief to walk into some kind of control room, filled with video monitors, and see that Felicity was still alive.  Although certainly not safe.  

Lifting his radio, he braced himself.  “Oliver.  Oliver, come in.”  

Huh.  This was the first time Tommy called Queen by his first name.  Out loud, that is.  Well, now Oliver was going to know something bad was happening.

And as soon as Tommy delivered the news, he could guess that Oliver would take off after Felicity.  Which meant it was up to him to develop a sensible plan.  One that had any chance of success.    

Moving quickly, Tommy just missed Sebastian and Felicity.  Inspecting the vehicle options left to him, he couldn’t help smiling when he hit the jackpot: a heavy-duty sandrail, perfect for the terrain of the island.  

He climbed into the vehicle, pulled on a pair of goggles, and took off after the jeep Sebastian was driving.  Unfortunately, Sebastian knew the island and Tommy didn’t.  Even with his skills, it was a challenge to keep up with the Italian.  At first, he tried to cut off Sebastian by going overland, but there were too many times in his brief attempt that Tommy was certain he would flip his vehicle.  His only choice was to stay on the road.  And while he had gained some ground, Tommy felt like he was being lead on a merry chase by Sebastian--that he wouldn't be able to get the upper hand.  That feeling was compounded when he had a stroke of bad luck.  

Sebastian had driven his jeep into a wide lake.  While the water nearly filled his vehicle, he was able to keep driving, thanks to the snorkel that prevented the engine from flooding.  But when Tommy glanced over his shoulder, he nearly cursed.  The snorkel on his sandrail was down, and he didn’t have the time to raise it.  That meant he couldn’t immediately follow Sebastian.  

Instead, Tommy skirted the edge of the lake, looking for a shallower crossing.  Once he found it, he skimmed over the lakebed, going as fast as he could, trying to make up the lost ground.  

Rain began falling from the sky.  The jeep began faltering a little on the boggy roads, but the sandrail managed it easily.  Tommy grit his teeth and put on an extra burst of speed and the bumpers of the two vehicles nearly touched.  

But then, like some bat out of hell, Oliver appeared on a motorcycle, coming out of the trees to their left and landing in front of Sebastian’s jeep.  

What Oliver was doing was nothing short of amazing.  Tommy had never seen someone ride a motorcycle like that.  Oliver maneuvered to the right side of the jeep, riding alongside Sebastian.  There was a bang and Tommy realized Oliver must have attempted to shoot out one of the jeep’s tires.  

But then, Sebastian jerked the wheel towards the right, knocking Oliver off-balance and sending him careening down the hill.  

Tommy could just hear Felicity scream, “Oliver!”  And Tommy himself felt a pang of fear clutch his heart.  Because from the way the motorcycle flipped, it was hard to imagine that Oliver would walk away from that crash.  

Which meant that it was truly up to Tommy to stop Sebastian, acquire the warhead, and save Felicity.  

The road widened ahead of them, nearly enough for jeep and sandrail to run side by side.  This was his chance.  Tommy looked over at the other vehicle.  Felicity was soaking wet, from both the jeep’s immersion in the lake and from the falling rain.  He felt his heart sink slightly when he saw that she was handcuffed to the dashboard of the jeep.  

Well, there was nothing that could be done about that.  And at least the handcuffs would act as a restraint for Felicity, allowing her to stay within the protection of the jeep’s frame, when Tommy tried to crash it.  

Catching Felicity’s eyes, he mouthed to her, “Hold on.”  He waited until he saw her hands grip the metal bar to which she was handcuffed, and then Tommy acted.

He turned the wheel sharply to the right, banging the sandrail into the jeep.  The other vehicle shuddered, then went off the road and down the hill, rolling several times until it came to a rest on its side.  

Drawing the sandrail to a stop close to the jeep, Tommy hurried over to Felicity’s door and pulled it open.  With all his strength, he yanked at the rail that her handcuffs were wrapped around.  It only took three tugs before the rail gave way, allowing him to pull Felicity out of the jeep.  

She was soaking wet and shivering, clearly suffering from shock, and Tommy was taking a breath before he tried to move her to the sandrail, when Sebastian attacked.

XXX

Pain in his chest.  The rumble of thunder.  Raindrops falling onto his face.  

Slowly, Oliver blinked his eyes open.  Everything was blurry, but whether that was from the crash or from the water in his eyes, he wasn’t sure yet.  

He tried to move, but the weight pressing against his torso made him look down . . . to see the body of the motorcycle pinning him to the ground.  

Pushing at it, he tried to move it, tried to get it off him.  But it barely budged, even when he gritted his teeth and used all his strength.  

And then, his vision cleared enough for him to see up the hill.  To see Sebastian advancing on Merlyn.  

“Merlyn!”

Felicity’s voice was thin and weak as she shrieked, drawing Merlyn’s attention.  But it was too late: even as Merlyn drew his gun, Sebastian knocked him back with some kind of weapon--something that looked like a crowbar.  

There was no time to waste.  Pushing with his feet, Oliver tried to use the extra leverage to lift up the motorcycle.  He only managed to shift it enough for him to sit up.  Enough to see Sebastian landing blows on Merlyn.  

If only Oliver had taken the time to teach him more about fighting.  Because Merlyn, yet again, was proving that he was no fighter.  

And neither was Felicity, but that didn’t stop her from jumping onto Sebastian’s back, distracting the Italian from continuing to kick Merlyn in the face.  

God, what was she thinking?  Oliver felt a wave of fear and worry wash over him.

Sebastian tossed aside Felicity like she was nothing but a rag doll.  She let out a yelp as she went flying, then groaned when she hit the ground.  

His blood ran cold.  Sebastian had hurt Felicity.  And that knowledge gave him the strength he didn’t realize he had.

Somehow, he managed to get to his feet.  He got the motorcycle lifted in the air as he staggered towards Sebastian.  The Italian was now pointing a gun on Merlyn, ready to pull the trigger, and Merlyn was just lying at his feet, his hands raised.  

Oliver’s grunts were loud.  Sebastian heard them and turned around, but it didn’t matter.  This wasn’t about the element of surprise: it was about brute force.  If Oliver could barely get the remnants of the motorcycle in the air, there was no way that Sebastian would be able to do anything but go down when Oliver heaved it at him.  

But even though Sebastian was down, so was Oliver.  His actions took too much from Oliver, dulling his reaction time.  In fact, more than just dulled--he was completely dazed, swaying on his feet, unable to do anything.  It wasn’t until Sebastian scrambled to his feet that Oliver realized he needed to move into a defensive posture.  

His gun was lost somewhere, so he drew the knife from his thigh holster.  To his dismay, Sebastian recovered Merlyn’s gun again, and Oliver, in that moment, accepted he might die here.  A knife against a gun was never good odds, because they weren’t even odds, regardless of whether the man with the knife was the superior of the man with the gun.  But he had to try.  The longer he occupied Sebastian, the longer Merlyn had to recover, to get Felicity away from here before he could help Oliver take out Sebastian.  All Oliver could do was to stall.  

This close to Sebastian, Oliver could see the weakness of his chin.  The softness of his cheeks.  This was not a man used to fighting.  Not the man leading the way.  No, that was his wife.  Sebastian Vinciguerra was merely a follower.  

Yet even as close as he was to Sebastian, Oliver didn’t see any evidence of the gunshot that ended Sebastian’s life.  The first thing that attracted his attention and made him realize his enemy was dead was the sound of the gunshot.  The crack of the shot was very loud.  The blood on the side of Sebastian’s head was very red.  And then the man was falling back, leaving Oliver half-kneeling in front of him, his knife still drawn.  

He didn’t know where Merlyn had gotten the gun.  Didn’t realize the other man had recovered enough to be able to help him.  But in that moment, he would say that Tommy Merlyn was a damn good spy.  

Not to Merlyn’s face, of course, but Oliver had to admit, he wasn’t as useless as he had appeared.

Slowly stumbling to his feet, Oliver sheathed his knife and walked towards Merlyn and Felicity.  “Cowboy,” he said to his partner, who nodded in acknowledgement and then winced.

“I’ll be okay, Peril,” Merlyn gritted out, but Oliver barely heard him.  

All he cared about was Felicity.  

XXX

This had been the longest day of her life.  It felt like a century since she had put on this pretty orange and white print dress and had stepped into Merlyn’s room, knowing what she was about to do but doing her best not to think about it.  Letting herself have a few moments before she had to betray the two men she had been working with for only a few days.  But they were both men she would be willing to stand beside against any enemy.  Which was more than she could say about any of the other agents she had encountered in her two years of espionage work.

Now she, and her dress, was soaked through from muddy lake water and the rain falling from the sky.  Her hair felt like a rat’s nest, she was covered in scratches and mud, and she was so cold that she couldn’t stop shivering.  Her glasses had been lost in the crash, so her vision was blurry even before the raindrops made her blink and squint.  She had never felt so weak.  Especially when Sebastian, the little weakling, had pulled her off his back and threw her to the ground like she was an annoying kitten.  

That was what she was: a kitten.  Surrounded by cats.  

Felicity jerked when she heard a gunshot.  The second one of the day.  The first one had taken her father away from her.  Who had this gunshot taken from her?  

Was it Merlyn?  Cocky, always-amused Merlyn, with his fancy suits and strange form of empathy?  The one who said she could do this, when he thought she was just a normal girl and not the almost-agent she was?  The one with the ready smile, who didn’t take life too seriously?

Or . . . was it Oliver?  Had Sebastian shot him?  Was it Oliver who had a bullet inside him, who was  _ bleeding  _ and--

Squeezing her eyes shut, Felicity shook her head.  No.  No, it couldn’t be Oliver.  She wouldn’t believe it.  Not when she hadn’t had a chance to tell him--not when they hadn’t had a chance to kiss . . . 

She had already lost one chance today.  The chance to resolve her past.  She couldn’t bear to lose another--the chance to make a future for herself.  

Large hands touched her elbow and her hair.  Gently, they rolled her over and Felicity looked up at Oliver’s face, becoming clear as he drew her head into his lap and leaned down towards her.  Knowing that her father was dead, but Oliver wasn’t . . . she couldn’t stop shaking, feeling relieved and guilty and grateful.  

Oliver’s face was streaked with mud and blood.  His hair was a dark brown from the water, but his eyes were so blue.  And full of emotion.  

His fingers lightly stroked her jaw.  “It’s okay,” he said softly.  “It’s okay, Felicity.”  His voice caressed the syllables of her name, making it sound different.  Special.  Amazing.

“Oliver--” she choked out.  “Who . . .?”

“Sebastian.  Merlyn shot him,” Oliver told her, his hand sending warmth through her, even with the gloves he was wearing.  Making her realize just how cold she was.

A roar filled the air and they both looked up to see a helicopter fly overhead.  It landed near them, men jumping out and scurrying over the area.  Some joined Merlyn at the warhead, which was thankfully still safely secured in the back of the jeep in spite of the accident.  A few dealt with Sebastian’s body, Felicity averting her eyes away from that bit of activity and feeling grateful for her bad eyesight.  And then two more, accompanied by Diggle, walked up to Felicity and Oliver.  

“All right there, Felicity?” Diggle asked, assisting Oliver to get her to her feet.  

She nodded a little, wrapping her arms around herself.  “Y-yes.”  

“Get Miss Smoak a blanket and check her injuries,” Diggle said to the two men.  Then he turned back to her.  “You can take cover in the chopper, out of the weather.”  

Too tired to do anything but agree, Felicity went with the men towards the helicopter.  She sensed Oliver following her, hanging back slightly but staying close enough for her to know he was still there.  

Which was incredibly comforting.  

Inside the chopper, the two men provided a scratchy wool blanket that Felicity pulled around herself, but she shook them off when they tried to bandage her cuts.   

The rain had stopped, so she walked over to the open door of the helicopter and sat on the edge, her legs dangling, her feet skimming the landing skid of the copter.  Too tired to hold herself up, she leaned against the door’s edge.  Oliver stood on the ground beside her, leaning against the helicopter, his body almost touching hers.  She looked up at him, noticing his disheveled hair and torn clothes, and thought how handsome he was.  

Oliver’s lips quirked a little, and his hand slowly reached out to rest on her shoulder.  And once again, such warmth and comfort flowed from him to her, making her feel so much better.  He might growl like a grizzly, but he was as gentle and kind as a teddy bear.

He really was like some enchanted prince from a fairy story.  

Merlyn walked over to them, holding a bandage to his head.  He nodded towards them, his lips turning up in a little smirk.  “Kissed and made up?”  

Felicity felt her cheeks flush.  Before either of them could reply, though, Diggle walked over towards them.  “All right?  Good work, chaps.  Just one small snag.”

“What is it?” Oliver asked, straightening up slightly, his hand moving across her shoulder.  

Diggle looked at all three of them.  “Wrong warhead.”

End, Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The type of vehicle that Tommy drives during the chase is a sandrail, which is like a dune buggy. But he's driving a much more heavy-duty version than the ones pictured in [this Wikipedia article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandrail). 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve decided to speed up the posting of the last two chapters, so surprise, you get this update only a few days after the last one! The final chapter, which contains original content that follows on from the movie, will be posted on Friday. Enjoy!

 

“What do you mean, wrong warhead?” Merlyn asked, sounding utterly confused.  

“It’s not a bomb?”  Oliver sounded suspicious.  Felicity frowned, feeling confused like Merlyn, but something about this was niggling at her . . . 

Diggle waved a hand towards the warhead being loaded onto the chopper.  “Oh, it’s a bomb, all right--rather a nasty one, too.  But it’s not nuclearized; there’s no uranium in it.”  

Felicity felt her hand raise, pointing towards the bomb.  “This was the second warhead in the lab,” she said, her words tumbling over each other.  

All three men wheeled around and looked at her.  She looked up at them, finally realizing what had been bothering her about all of this.  “There were two missiles.  Sebastian took this one . . . and Isabel must have taken the other.  The actual warhead.”

The British agent’s eyes widened.  “We need to get back to the carrier.”  

Without any delay, they all climbed into the helicopter and immediately took off.  It was flying very fast, Felicity thought, from the noise and the rattling.  It made it impossible for any talking to happen, unless you were wearing a headset and using the chopper’s communications systems.  The noise made her head ache, so she closed her eyes and leaned forward, trying to recover some of her strength.

Once they landed, Digg led them into the control room of the carrier to update Admiral Shrieve.  That sent everyone scurrying, examining logs and reports, searching for how the Vinciguerras had gotten the actual nuclear warhead off the island.  

Finally, Admiral Shrieve shook his head.  “Radar, sonar, aerial reconnaissance, all are in complete agreement--no vessels left the island last night.  And that includes submarines.”  

“What about fishing boats from the mainland?” Oliver asked.  

Diggle snapped his fingers.  “Yes!”  He turned to Admiral Shrieve.  “We need the harbor master.”  

As the minutes passed while they waited for the harbor master to arrive, Felicity started shivering again, in spite of her blanket.  

“You should change.”  Oliver’s voice was low and gentle.  His hand rested on her back, his fingers spread wide.  With the size of his hand, it was like her whole back was covered by it.  

“I’m fine.  I want to help,” she told him, looking up at him.  He leaned in closer to her, his face becoming clearer the closer he was.  

He shook his head.  “You will get ill.  And you are hurt.”  

Lifting her chin, Felicity fixed Oliver with her most determined expression.  “I’m staying.”  

Oliver’s lips twisted again, into that almost-smile.  Felicity couldn’t help smiling back at him, then looked away before her smile got too big.

Her eyes noticed the activity through the large glass windows, on the deck of the carrier.  She squinted, noticing that some kind of military police were there, herding along people she had seen in the lab on Vinciguerra Island.  Including Otto, the one who had explained the coupler to her.  

And that planted an idea in her mind.  But when her shivering got too bad, Oliver gave her another look and Felicity rolled her eyes, hating that she had to agree with him.  But he was right: she did need dry clothes.  

Thankfully, she found a jumpsuit that didn’t entirely swamp her in fabric, and a private office where she could change, before the arrival of the short, bearded harbor master.    

“The boats leave every morning at dawn,” he reported in a thick Italian accent, taking off his cap and rubbing a hand over his head.  

“How many are there?” Oliver asked, leaning forward.  

“Almost a hundred.  By now, they will have spread out over a sixty-kilometer radius.”

His words made everyone’s spirits sink.  Admiral Shrieve shook his head.  “A radius which is expanding every minute.  The Nazi submarine will reportedly surface at 0800.  That leaves us twenty minutes--and we don’t even know what boat we’re looking for.”

“Do you have a list of the ships that sail out of Rome?” Merlyn asked the harbor master, snatching the list from the man’s hands almost before he had produced it.  He ran his finger down the list, turning pages briskly.  

Felicity frowned and looked at Oliver, who shrugged his shoulders.  Like her, he didn’t know what Merlyn was looking for.  

“The  _ Shado _ .”  

Everyone turned to look at Merlyn, who had a confident look on his face.  “That’s the name of Slade Vinciguerra’s old fishing boat.  I suggest we start there.”

It made sense, Felicity thought.  The Vinciguerras certainly went in for their company history: at the party at the race track, there had been a large display of memorabilia, including photos of their fleet.  Merlyn must have picked up the name of the vessel then.

No one said anything, clearly weighing Merlyn’s plan.  He must have sensed he nearly had them, because Merlyn turned to the harbor master.  “You can get them on the radio, yes?”

“And you can get a bearing from a radio signal,” Diggle asked Admiral Shrieve.

The admiral nodded.  “If you keep them broadcasting long enough, yes.”  He sounded doubtful that such a goal could be achieved.  “It would take nearly two minutes.”

The time seemed right for Felicity to offer her contribution.  “I have an idea that might make things quicker.”

Now everyone was looking at her, and Felicity almost smiled.  She might not have her father’s knowledge, might not know anything about nuclear weapons.  But she did have an excellent memory.  

XXX

Within five minutes, the harbor master was hailing the  _ Shado _ on the radio.  Tommy waited, letting a sense of calm settle over him.  Because he knew he could do this.  He knew he could annoy Isabel enough to keep her talking for two minutes.  Which would be long enough to spell her doom.  

And then, with the computer disk of Dr. Teller’s research he had in his pocket--the disk he had recovered from Sebastian after he had killed him and while Oliver was distracted with Felicity--Tommy would have the leverage to discuss his deal with Malcolm.  

But as the harbor master’s calls to the  _ Shado  _ went without a response, Tommy sensed how the others were doubting this plan.  

And then, with a crackle of static, a voice in Italian said, “Harbor master, this is  _ Shado _ .”

_ Finally _ , Tommy thought.  The harbor master asked for Isabel Vinciguerra, but the  _ Shado _ ’s captain denied she was on board.  Shrieve--a pompous little follower of an admiral if Tommy had ever met one--intoned that there were only ten minutes left.  At that, Diggle turned to Tommy.

“Merlyn, this is your cue.”  

Not needing to be told twice, Tommy took the radio handset from the harbor master.  He took one extra moment to gather himself, then began talking.

“ _ Shado _ , this is Tommy Merlyn.  Isabel, I suspect you’re already listening so I’ll give you this message directly.  Earlier today, I killed your husband.”

He kept his voice free from gloating--at least for now.  Just the fact of her husband’s death wouldn’t be enough to make Isabel act.  No, he would have to embroider the truth, highlight just how weak Sebastian was in order to compel Isabel to actually respond.  

But they  _ were  _ on the clock.

“I’d like to report he died honorably, courageously and selflessly,” Tommy said, noticing how Diggle nodded in approval.  

“But I can’t report that,” Tommy continued.  “Instead, it was a rather pitiful affair involving tears, begging, and promises to trade anything and, indeed, anyone, so I would spare his life.”  He made sure to emphasize the ‘anyone’, to make Isabel suspect that Sebastian had tried to offer her up.  

Which worked like a charm.  Because within thirty seconds, Isabel’s voice came over the speakers mounted throughout the bridge.  “Tommy.”  

Everyone looked at each other, then burst into action around Tommy, preparing for acquiring the  _ Shado _ ’s location.

“I appreciate your message,” Isabel said coldly, “and now I hope you’ll appreciate mine.  Any of your family still living will be dead within the year.  They will die slowly, painfully, and at my hand.”

Distantly, Tommy heard a sailor call out the bearing of the  _ Shado _ , but he was more focused on Isabel.  

“You will only be able to watch their suffering, and await your own.  Which I will save for last.  This I vow on my husband’s soul,” Isabel concluded.  

“Your organization would be willing to let you waste time on a personal vendetta like that?” Tommy asked.

Isabel let out a little laugh.  “After I deliver the warhead you so desperately tried to acquire, they will allow me some vacation time.  Especially since they will also have the good doctor’s research.  They can begin creating as many bombs as we need, while I will make destroying you the first item on my agenda.”

“Not much of a vacation,” Tommy mused, watching as the rocket was fired from the aircraft carrier, rising up into the sky.  “I see one flaw in your plan, though.”

“Entertain me,” Isabel replied scornfully.  

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.  

“While you’ve been telling me how dangerous you are, we’ve been locking on to your radio signal,” Tommy said, making sure to lay out each step.  He wanted Isabel to know just how badly she had failed by the time he finished this little play-by-play.

“Now we have your general location,” he informed her.

She snorted again.  “Won’t do you much good.  I’ll be gone in five minutes.”

“I haven’t finished,” Tommy said, injecting a healthy dose of gloating in his voice.  “The coupler that you so considerately left us on your decoy warhead--it’s accurate to ten feet, or so I’ve been told.  And that warhead, although not nuclear, will be able to easily take out a medium-sized fishing vessel.”  

He almost thought he heard the smallest intake of breath through the speakers.  As if Isabel, being as intelligent as she was, had realized what was about to happen.  But she stayed silent while Tommy gave her the last piece of information.

“That aforementioned warhead launched . . . oh, forty-five seconds ago,” Tommy noted, glancing at his watch.  “Which gives you about thirty seconds until impact.  Fortunately, it won’t trigger the nuclear warhead.  But, if you want to make good on your vow, I do hope you can swim, because you’ll want to abandon ship immediately.”  

There was no response from Isabel again, and Tommy couldn’t resist an exit line.  A literal exit line, in this case.

“How’s  _ that  _ for entertainment?”

Diggle raised a set of binoculars to his eyes, scanning the horizon.  “There it is,” he said, pointing towards a swiftly-rising column of smoke to the east.  

Looking out over the water, Tommy felt the satisfaction of a job well-done.  A job well-done by all three of them: himself, Oliver and Felicity.  Because without Oliver’s suggestion of the fishing boat, without Felicity telling them about the coupler . . . his psychological games on Isabel wouldn’t have been enough.  

They made a fairly good team.  It was a shame that this was the end of it.  

But they had won.  And he had acquired Dr. Teller’s research.  So perhaps it was better to end on a high note.

XXX

It was strange how quickly a place could feel like more than what it was.  He had only spent three nights in this hotel suite, yet . . . yet it felt more than simply a place to sleep and to plan various steps of this mission.  

No, it was more like . . . like what he imagined a home was.  It reminded him of his earliest memories, of being with his parents, safe and warm and happy.  

But he was no child now.  That feeling did not come from his parents, nor from being coddled with good food and plenty of material possessions.  

It all came from Felicity.  

He didn’t want to leave her.  

“All packed?” she asked, stepping into the living room with the last of her baggage.  “The bellboy is on his way up.”  

Nodding, he let himself fidget a bit with the last of his equipment, settling it into its case.  “Time to go home.  How about you?”

“I’m not going back to East Germany, obviously ,” she said firmly, pushing her new glasses up on her nose, but then she softened.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, about me working for Diggle . . .”  

The last thing he wanted was for her to feel guilty about anything that had happened between them.  “No,” he said, shaking his head.  “I would have done the same thing, in your position.”  He paused, looking down for a moment.  “I’m sorry about your father.”  

Felicity pressed her lips together.  For once, they weren’t painted a bright color.  They were shiny with some kind of gloss, letting the natural shade of her lips shine through.  It was even more attractive than the bright pinks and reds she had worn since he had met her.  

“I lost him a long time ago,” she whispered.  But in her voice, Oliver could hear the sadness she couldn’t hide.  Knew that she was putting on a brave face.  

“Cowboy invited us for a drink in his room--” he began to offer, only for Felicity to cut him off.  

“I have to meet with Diggle,” she said, a hint of regret in her voice.  She turned to go, only to pause and turn back.  “Before I forget . . .” 

She wiggled the pearl ring on her left ring finger, drawing it off and holding it out to him.  “In case we don’t see each other again, before we leave.  I wouldn't want to leave with that still on my finger--I mean, it’s not necessary for me to wear it anymore.  It’s a nice ring, don’t get me wrong, but--”  

Her mouth snapped closed at the touch of his fingers against hers.  Oliver lifted the ring to look at it, then gazed down at her.  “No,” he said softly, taking her hand and dropping the ring into her palm.  “You keep it.  As a souvenir.  And so I can keep an eye on you.”  He did his best to smile at her, in the hope that his request did not sound obtrusive.  

But he needed to know he could find her.  Needed to know where she was in this big world.  

It was futile, he knew.  Felicity was strong-minded and independent, she would not allow him to track her every move--

And then, she closed her hand around the ring and gave him a tiny nod.  

Oliver felt his lips part.  Like his body was not under his control, he stepped closer to Felicity.  He bent at the waist, bringing his face towards hers.  Feeling once again that rush of breath escape her lips and wash over his own.  

This time, he would not fail.  He would kiss her.  Taste her sweetness, feel the silk of her hair, see her cheeks go pink as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her . . . 

His lips were nearly touching hers when a sharp knock sounded against the door.  “ _ Con il permesso _ ,” the bellboy said as he opened the door, stepping inside.  He frowned at what he found: two people, clearly having been interrupted, stepping away from each other.

At the same moment, the telephone rang.  Oliver looked at Felicity, wanting to tell her to stop, to not go, but the phone kept ringing, so he turned to snatch up the receiver, hearing Anatoly’s voice.  

Risking retribution, Oliver said, “One moment, please,” then turned back towards Felicity, only to see her disappearing through the door.

A crushing sense of loss settled over him as he held the phone’s receiver.  Like he had already left.   That he was already back to Russia, far away from warmth and sunshine and hope.  His fingers trembled, fidgeting against each other.  

He closed his eyes for a moment, then lifted the receiver back to his ear.  “Yes, comrade.”  

Anatoly’s voice was harsh and clipped.  “Do you have Dr. Teller’s disk?”

“No, it went down with Isabel Vinciguerra,” Oliver replied distractedly.

“Then why am I told the American has it?” Anatoly demanded, angrier than Oliver had ever heard him.  “You have your orders.  Whoever has that disk can control the world.  If you cannot acquire it by any means necessary, then perhaps it is time for you to visit your father.  To learn how to live with failure.  With humiliation.  Joining all the other embarrassments to your country.”  

The words hit him hard.  Just as Anatoly intended, Oliver was sure.  But knowing that didn’t blunt their effect.  Because . . . the mention of his father, on top of losing Felicity, realizing that Merlyn had somehow double-crossed him but not wanting to believe it. . . 

Oliver felt more than ready to kill someone.  

Hanging up the phone, his thumb rubbed against his fingers.  His hands practically tingled with the urge to destroy.  A haze settled over his vision, making everything appear tinged with red.  

And then, in one smooth move, he lifted up the ornate coffee table, the one he had played chess at, the one where Felicity had rested her tumbler of vodka, and flung it aside.  

The flood gates opened.  Lamps were smashed against the wall.  Pillows were ripped apart, feathers sent flying into the air.  Vases of flowers were swept off tables.   The uncomfortable couch was lifted onto one end and then shoved aside, landing haphazardly on top of an end table.  But it wasn’t enough.  Wasn’t nearly enough to burn the anger away.  Not even lifting up the large television set and slamming it down could do that.  

But it did take the edge off.  Enough for him to straighten up and leave the ransacked suite.  Enough for him to walk, in all apparent calm, up the flight of stairs to Merlyn’s suite.

XXX

Four days ago, she would have never worn white.  And wearing a dress was only slightly less unusual.  But here she was, in a chic little white dress, with coordinating sandals and bag, dangly earrings and her hair in a curly ponytail.  

Was this who she was?  Or was this just her cover?  The one that had been shaped by a man she might never see again?  Was this the woman she was supposed to be, now that she was free?  

Or was she really free?  After all, she was still Diggle’s agent.  She didn’t know what the future held.  Would she be working all over Europe?  Or would she go to England, get real training?  Either in espionage or in electronics or both.  

There was just so many unanswered questions about her future.  Questions that she should be focused on.  

But instead, all she could think about was missing her third chance at kissing Oliver.  How many people got a second chance at kissing someone--only to need a third and still not make it happen?  Clearly, she should take that as a sign.  That no matter what there was between herself and Oliver Queen, no matter that he was gentle and kind unless someone hurt her, it wasn’t meant to be.  They had gotten a moment together and that was all they would have.

Which meant she should move on.  Put Oliver in her past and focus on her future, focus on answering all those questions.  And to start that, she had her meeting with Diggle.  

Felicity knocked firmly on the door to room 304.  After a moment, Diggle opened the door and smiled at her.  “Ah, Felicity, come in.  Quite all right now, yes?”

Nodding, she stepped into the room.  “I’m fine.  Ready to find out what’s next.”  

“Hmmmm,” Digg said, closing the door behind her and gesturing for her to take a seat.  “Drink?”

“Yes, please,” Felicity said, sitting down on the sofa and crossing her legs.  “Gin and tonic, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“For an Englishman from the Caribbean?  Not at all,” Diggle said with a small smile.  “In fact, I will join you in one.”  

Smiling back at him, Felicity folded her hands in her lap and looked around.  The hotel room was neat and tidy, just like she’d imagine it would be.  A somewhat-battered suitcase and a polished leather briefcase were near the door, as if waiting for a bellboy to take them to the lobby.  

_ Up close, Oliver smelled like a forest, but with a hint of musk.  Warm and woodsy, comforting and utterly safe.  So even though butterflies were fluttering in her stomach as he came closer, she felt like kissing him would let her finally find the place where she belonged. _

_ And then there was the knock on the door and the bellboy, and the ringing phone, and Diggle was waiting . . . _

“Felicity?”

“What?” she said sharply, startling out of her memories.  

Diggle was standing in front of her, holding her drink out to her with a raised eyebrow.  

“Oh,” she muttered, reaching out to take the glass from him.  “Thank you.”  

As much as she wanted to throw it back, Felicity made herself sip the drink while Digg settled himself on the sofa across from her, leaning back and looking utterly relaxed.  He took his own sip and nodded.  “Not bad.”  

“It’s excellent, Digg,” she countered, resting the glass in her free hand, resting both of them on her knee.  

“It’s been a long time since my days as a bartender on the SS  _ Almeda _ , yet I seem to have not lost my touch,” Diggle said with another smile.  “But we are not here to talk about cocktails.”  

She shook her head, then waited for Diggle to go on.  When he stayed silent, observing her, Felicity fought the urge to fidget.  She lifted her glass, letting the gin slide down her throat, then looked back at Diggle.  “Well?  What are we here to talk about?”

“This was not how I imagined you beginning your career.  But we needed to wait and be patient, until we knew where your father was,” Diggle explained, his voice gentle and kind.  “You have my very greatest sympathies for your loss, Felicity.”  

His words and his voice were filled with caring, yet . . . Oliver’s simple “I’m sorry about your father” had meant so much more.  

Enough!  She had to stop thinking about Oliver Queen!

“Thank you,” she said softly, looking down at her lap.  

“Yes,” Diggle said.  There was the sound of ice clinking in his glass, and then he continued.  “So now that you are roped into this, we can discuss what comes next for you.”

“I’d like that--in fact, that’s all I want to talk about.  What’s next,” Felicity said quickly, bringing her eyes up to Diggle's.  Hoping she appeared dedicated and committed.  Because that was what she was.

Nodding, Diggle swirled the contents of his glass.  “I suppose the first question is whether you want to continue working for me.  Or if, now that you're no longer behind that dreadful Iron Curtain, you'd like to do something else.”

“Could I?” asked Felicity, feeling shocked.

“Oh, yes.  After all, two years of work for us, behind enemy lines… You're due a rather nice lump sum for all your work.  And it's yours if you choose to leave.  You could go to school, or get a job somewhere.  Nice little flat, perhaps with a roommate or a cat,” Digg said, smiling at her.

In other words, everything a new arrival to the West might want.  Peace and quiet, the chance to live her life free of danger and risk.

Felicity frowned.  That sounded so . . . boring.  Even before these last few days, she thought that would have been her reaction.  And in such a quiet life, she wasn't sure she would be able to hold her memories at bay.  No, she would get lost in them, become bitter or even vengeful.  And she didn't want to turn into such a woman.

“What if . . . what if I keep working for you?”

Her mentor smiled widely.  “I did hope you might feel like that.  You need some more training, of course.  Yet your instincts are good, and you proved yourself on this mission.  I don't see a need for you to start at the beginning.  Which is convenient for me. “

She had to chuckle, even as her wariness increased.  Because she didn't know where Diggle was going with this, and that made her nervous.

Lifting her glass, she drained the last of her gin and tonic, then took a deep breath.  “All right, Digg.  What do you have in mind?”

“Before I tell you, might you answer a question for me, Felicity?”

Alarm bells went off inside her head, although she didn't know why exactly.  Because what did she have to fear from Digg?  But she still hesitated before nodding her head. 

“You and Queen . . . Nothing happened there, did it?”

His voice was level, completely free of judgment or censure.  But there was plenty of concern there. 

Licking her lips, Felicity looked down at her glass.  Diggle already knew more than he realized, what with his choice of words.

Because all that had happened with Oliver was nothing. 

“Nothing.  That's right,” Felicity said, lifting her eyes up to meet Digg's.

He finished off his own glass and gave her a nod.  “Follow me, then.”

XXX

The knock on his door made Tommy straighten up from his packing.  The best missions, regardless of whether he had completed his objective or not, were the ones that allowed him to pack his clothes according to his standards.  Given that he had won this mission, and then some, being able to pack his belongings properly was the cherry on the sundae.

But he wasn't expecting any company just yet.  Peril and Felicity at some point, yes, for a post-mission drink--and hopefully one that was also post-coital, once those two dealt with that cloud of sexual attraction around them.  But it had been less than an hour, and he couldn't see Oliver being done with Felicity that quickly.

Crossing to the door, he drew it open and immediately knew that no such interaction had occurred between his two partners.  Withholding a sigh, he pasted on a welcoming smile.  “Peril, come in.”

Without a word, Oliver stepped inside, the tension rolling off him in waves.  It made Tommy reconsider his initial thought.  This was more than sexual frustration.  What else was eating Oliver? 

“Make us some drinks--I think we've earned them,” Tommy said, gesturing to the glasses and the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black he had arranged for earlier.  Showing more confidence than he felt, Tommy turned his back on Oliver and resumed his packing.  Or appeared to, at least.  Rather, he was observing Oliver in the mirror on the bedside table, the one that was conveniently pointed towards the living room of the suite.

So Tommy could see the rigidly controlled movements as Oliver picked up the bottle of whisky while Tommy made small talk.

“Feeling okay?” he asked, tempted to ask flat-out what had happened to him.

Oliver merely nodded, holding the bottle in his giant hands. 

“So back home after this, Comrade?” he asked Oliver.

There was a long pause, then Oliver said in a low voice, “Something like that.”

Tommy glanced over his shoulder at Oliver, who was slowly uncapping the whisky, his eyes lowered, looking not at him but in Tommy's general direction.  But he immediately raised them to meet Tommy's, then turned to fill their glasses.

Following Oliver's initial line of sight, Tommy nearly cursed.  Dr. Teller's computer disk was just visible under his jacket, sitting on the end-of-bed bench with his suitcase.  That was what Oliver was looking at.

That was what he was here for: the research.  And he was ready to do whatever it took to acquire said research.  Even if it meant killing Tommy.

Slowly, Tommy lifted his gun from underneath the clothing in his suitcase.  He drew it from the holster, pausing with the gun in his hand as he began to reconsider this.

Was Oliver ready to kill him?  Oliver was way too tightly wound for a man who was at peace with his decision.  No . . . he was fighting this.  Looking for a way out so he wouldn't have to do this.

Something Tommy appreciated, because . . . he didn't want to have to kill Oliver in order to keep the disk.

He needed a way to bring Queen back from the state he was in.  Needed to break through to the real Oliver.

And then, tucked in with his clothes, against the side of his suitcase, he found it.

In the mirror, he could see Oliver unzipping his corduroy jacket.  Going for his gun, no doubt. 

“Oh, and almost forgot--here,” Tommy said, whirling around and chucking the key to the real Oliver towards him.  Those great reflexes let his Soviet partner easily lift his hands and catch what Tommy had tossed towards him.

Tommy watched as Oliver looked at the small object for a long moment, almost like he didn't recognize it, before his eyes went wide.  “My father's watch.”

Oliver sounded truly shocked.  He lifted his eyes to Tommy's, staring at him.

“I took that off a guard on Vinciguerra Island.  I thought you'd want it back,” Tommy said blandly, as if he didn't know the meaning that watch held for Oliver.

His partner slowly fumbled with the watch as he put it on, since he didn't seem like he wanted to look away from Tommy.  “You knew what my mission was, yes?”

“The same as mine.  Getting this,” Tommy said, lifting his jacket off the disk and holding it up to Oliver.  “Kill me if necessary.”

Oliver nodded slowly.  “Yes.”

And with that, a silence fell between them.  Because they both knew what they were expected to do.  They both understood the importance of this information, knew that their governments saw it as a vital piece in their future plans.  Whichever country possessed this knowledge, they would rule the world.

It was a shame, Tommy thought, that they just couldn't share it.  But then, was that any better than only one country possessing it?  At this point, he didn't have faith in either country to not try some kind of double cross.  Sneak into the other's research facilities and destroy their copy of the intelligence, for example.

Tommy thought Oliver was having similar thoughts.  But then, almost at the same moment, their gazes meet as a solution occurred to them.

XXX

The suite that Merlyn had been staying in possessed an extra feature over the one he had shared with Felicity: a large balcony with an awe-inspiring view of Rome.  The buildings in front of them, made of stone and brick, were pale tones of cream and gray and blue, faded by the decades or centuries.  Splashes of color came from window boxes overflowing with flowers.  The floral fragrance combined with the barest hint of the ocean, present in the light breeze that offset the warm sunshine.  A church bell tolled nearby, filling the silence between Oliver and Tommy.  

Oliver leaned on the railing after sliding on a pair of sunglasses, slowly sipping his whisky and taking it all in.  Feeling a lightness inside him.  Not necessarily peace or contentment, but a feeling that he no longer carried the weight of his father’s humiliation on his shoulders.  That the watch he wore around his wrist wasn’t an anchor, but merely a souvenir.  

Perhaps it was time to let his past no longer be his driving motivation.  To find a new way.  Not that dissimilar from how Tommy went about his business.  

Not that he would tell the American that.  But he thought that they had come to an agreement--an understanding.  

As if reading his thoughts, Merlyn turned away from the table after refilling his glass and took in the view.  “I absolutely hated working with you, Peril.”  

Oliver held back a smile.  “You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.”  

Tommy arched a brow at him, then reached over with his glass.  Oliver lightly tapped his against Tommy’s in a toast, and they both drank.  

“Good evening, gentlemen.”  

At the sound of Diggle’s voice, both Oliver and Tommy straightened up, turning around.  Oliver felt his chest tighten when he saw Felicity following Diggle.  It was all he could do not to step away from the railing and walk towards her.   To usher her away so he could kiss her.   To pull away her sunglasses, replace them with her regular glasses, and gaze into her eyes so he could see what she was thinking.

“What a scene,” Diggle said, his voice dry to the point of aridity.  “It’s like something out of a film.  Nice view, a glass of whisky . . . and a little bonfire to keep you warm.”  

Diggle’s eyes were fixed on the table, so Oliver just glanced over at the cut-glass ashtray, where the data tape from Dr. Teller’s computer disk was melting away, merrily burning thanks to a fire  created by a little whisky and a match.  

That was the solution to the problem.  Neither the Americans or the Soviets could be trusted with the information.  So it was best for no one to have it.

“Such an unfortunate accident,” Oliver said blandly, looking at Diggle.

“An immense setback, I’m sure.  It might be decades before Dr. Teller’s work can be recreated,” Tommy said, equally smoothly.  

“Good.”  

All three of them looked at Felicity, who was staring at the table, too.  But Oliver could hear the pain in her voice.  He gripped his glass tightly, fighting with the urge to go to her.  

“Yes.  Rather good idea,” Diggle agreed, his gaze resting on Oliver and then Tommy for a long moment.  Then he bobbed his head and spoke.  “I have news.  Another bit of unpleasantness has arisen.  I’ve spoken to your superiors, and since we’ve all become such good friends, I’ve been authorized to keep the team together a bit longer.”

And like that, the lightness Oliver had been feeling burst into something more, into sunshine and color.  Because . . . Felicity was part of the team.  She would be going with them.  He had another chance.  

From the way Felicity was looking at him, her teeth lightly gnawing on her lower lip, she was thinking the same kind of thoughts.  At least, he hoped she was.  He couldn’t tell due to her sunglasses hiding her eyes. 

“We leave in an hour,” Diggle concluded.  

“Where are we going?” Oliver heard himself asking.  Which was ridiculous, because it didn’t matter where he was, as long as he was with Felicity.

The corner of Diggle’s mouth twitched.  “Istanbul.  Would you happen to have a pair of curly-wurly shoes, Queen?”  

Oliver frowned at him, feeling somewhat annoyed by the levity, which of course Diggle sensed.  Because now Diggle was definitely smiling as he turned away.  

“Oh, and you have a new code name,” Diggle added as he started to walk away.

“What is it?” Tommy asked.

Diggle paused, then withdrew a sheet of paper from inside his suit jacket.  He  handed it to Felicity before continuing to walk away.  She pulled off her sunglasses, fumbling a little as she put them into her handbag and putting on her regular glasses.  Then she opened the folded paper and read aloud, “A.R.G.U.S.  Active Recovery Group for Unity and Stability.”  

She blinked and looked at Oliver, then at Tommy.  They all seemed to be thinking the same thing: that code name implied that they might be working together for quite a while. 

And as he looked at Felicity, Oliver was excited by that.  Not because it would give him more time to get another chance with her.  But because it would give them more time together, after they took their chance.  

End, Chapter 6  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those few but faithful readers who let me know they were enjoying this fic. This was an interesting challenge, to write a movie AU that’s so close to the movie, and I’m glad that people enjoyed it! I hope you like my expansion of the movie, with the newly-formed A.R.G.U.S. heading to Istanbul . . .

****The ancient city of Istanbul, previously known as Byzantium or Constantinople, had occupied space on the Strait of Bosporus for over a millennium.  Now, in 1963, it reflected its history and its hopes for the future.  The open-air markets and the high-end shops, the air heavy with spices and freshly-laid asphalt roads, sleekly modern buildings next to mosques topped with slender minarets . . . it was like something out of a dream.

Yet Felicity could barely take it all in, because she was just too distracted by Oliver.

Ever since they had left the hotel in Rome, heading for the airport, she had noticed a difference in him.  Something had changed between when she had left him to see Diggle and when she had walked out onto the balcony, seeing the sunlight form a halo around his head.  

The difference was . . . he kept touching her.  His hand resting lightly against her lower back as they walked through the airport.  His knee pressing against hers as they sat next to each other on the plane.  His arm brushing against hers as he opened the door to the car that would take them to their hotel in Istanbul.  

It wasn't that different from how he has acted in Rome.  When he was pretending to be her fiancé.  But now, they weren't trying to protect a cover.  They didn't need to pretend.  So this . . . this was real.

But it also was different.  Because she could tell that each and every time he touched her, it wasn't an accident.  It wasn't because he was too close or he didn't realize what he was doing.  No, he knew.  He knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time they were in the car to the hotel in Istanbul and he leaned in so close to her that his nose was nearly touching her temple, Felicity felt like her skin was two sizes too small.  “Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked quietly.

Blinking, she glanced over at Tommy and Diggle, who were deep in conversation.  But not so deeply that Tommy didn’t catch her eye and give her a wink.  

“I have spent some time in Istanbul,” Oliver continued.  “I know a very good restaurant.”  

So . . . it would be just her and Oliver.  Alone.  In a city of mystery and romance.  

“I’d love to,” she said, meeting his eyes.  

She was really glad she had.  Because at her answer, his eyes softened, the blue becoming so warm and deep, she felt like she was sinking into pools the color of the sky.  

Her cold Russian bear was melting away, replaced with this flesh-and-blood man who had his heart in his eyes.  It was better than any fairy story and made Felicity feel her heart tumble in her chest.  

That feeling only kept increasing throughout dinner, in a small little restaurant tucked away in one of the alleys deep inside Istanbul.  The food had been wonderful: rich and well-spiced, filling her stomach but not making her feel heavy or sleepy.  And the company had been even better.  

Oliver had changed, but not to an extreme.  He hadn’t become a man he wasn’t, some over-the-top, effusive jokester.  But he was definitely warmer, softer, more open.  His lips quirked up in small smiles.  He laughed quietly.  And all those small little touches continued.  

Now they were walking back towards their hotel, Felicity holding his arm so she wouldn’t stumble on the uneven paving stones in her high heels.  Under her fingers, she could feel his muscles, slightly tensed.  Ready to rescue her if her feet went out from under her.  To swing her up against his chest and protect her from anything, even something as minor as a skinned knee.

Although she hoped that if he did lift her up like that, it wasn't because he was rescuing her. 

When their hotel came into sight, at the end of the pedestrian square they were walking through, Felicity took a deep breath and looked up at Oliver.  “Tonight has been . . . magical.”  

He gazed down at her, slowing his feet until they stopped moving.  “Magical.  Is not a word I use often.”  

“Me, neither,” Felicity said, turning to face him but keeping her hand on his arm.  “But ever since we started working together . . . I thought you were like something out of a fairy tale.”  

“A fairy tale?” he asked, sounding surprised and amused.  

Felicity nodded, not holding back her smile.  “Like a prince who had been charmed into a bear until he learned an important lesson.”  

His face flickered, and then he ducked his head slightly.  “You are very observant.  And imaginative.”  

“That might be the first time anyone’s described me like that,” Felicity replied, trying to hold back a nervous giggle.  

Oliver lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers.  “There . . . there are many ways to describe you,” he said softly.  His free hand rose up and oh-so-lightly brushed a lock of her hair that rested against the frame of her glasses, moving it out of her eyes.  Then he stepped closer to her, still looking right into her eyes.  

And rather than take the chance of being interrupted again, Felicity didn’t wait for him to kiss her.  Instead, she went up on her tiptoes and met Oliver’s mouth with her own.  

Immediately, she was very, very happy with her decision.  And wondering, for someone who was supposed to be very smart, why she had been so dumb by waiting so long to kiss Oliver.  

It was a gentle kiss at first.  Just their lips touching, moving slowly against each other.  But then, Oliver’s hands cupped her face and he moved closer to her, and the tiny little sparks she had been feeling all night--since the night they had met, actually--flared into a fire.  An inferno.  

Her hands reached out to clutch at the edges of his jacket, the corduroy material so soft against her fingertips.  But underneath the jacket, she could feel Oliver’s chest, which was so firm.  She wanted to be even closer to him.

Meanwhile, his hands were moving slowly, one of them moving to the back of her head, his fingers stroking her hair.  His other hand smoothed down her back, lingering on the bare skin revealed by her dress and making her shiver.  Making her imagine his hand pressing against her flesh, all firm and possessive, his fingernails scratching . . . 

“Felicity,” he murmured against her lips, his voice low and raspy, his accent heavier.  It made her knees go weak, so she clutched tighter at his jacket.  

“Oliver . . .” she whispered, looking up at him.  Looking for some idea of what he was thinking.

His fingers slowly stroked her scalp.  His eyes roamed over her face, like he was looking at her for the first time.  And the seriousness of his regard, the weight of his gaze . . . it made something inside her loosen and relax.  For years, she had needed to hold herself back.  Because she wasn't free to be herself, to say exactly what she was thinking.  

That was never going to be an option for her if she continued as a spy.  But . . . but now there were people with whom she could let down some of her walls.  Like she already had, in a limited way, with Digg.

But with Oliver, she could be herself.  Could be closer to the real Felicity than with anyone else.  Not that she was entirely sure who the real Felicity was.  But as she figured that out, she thought that Oliver would be willing to stand by her side, watching her, protecting her . . . caring about her.

“You are thinking deep thoughts,” Oliver said softly.  His hand lifted from her back and then came up to lightly stroke between her brows, just above the nosepiece of her glasses.  “You have little crease, right here.”

Felicity felt a soft smile appear on her face.  “I was thinking.  But I liked it better when you were kissing me and I wasn't thinking.”

Oliver's smile was soft, small, and devastating.  “I liked that, too,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her again.

And for the next few endless moments, there were no more questions about who she really was and what Oliver was thinking about.  There was only her and him, their lips moving against each other in the middle of a tree-lined square, under a sky full of stars.

There was only Felicity and Oliver.

XXX

If he was as good a spy as he thought he was, Oliver would not trust this.  Would not trust this giddy, light feeling, the one that made everything seem easy and effortless after a lifetime of hard work and focus.  He wouldn't trust how he woke up smiling each and every day, ready for work.  He wouldn't trust how he practically floated to bed, anticipating the lovely images and sensations his mind created as he drifted off to sleep.

He wouldn't trust Felicity, since she was the cause of all of this.  But not trusting Felicity was impossible.

The end of the Vinciguerra mission had shown him that there were other choices.  Really, the whole assignment had shown him that.  There were other ways than the Russian one.  

The choice was not always kill or be killed.  Sometimes, there was a third option.  Burn the computer disk, for example.

When it came to Felicity, he had held back when they were in Rome.  There had been too many secrets between them.

Now, they were the secret.

When they had finally come up for air that first night in Istanbul, they had agreed that it was best, for the time being, to keep their relationship to themselves.  Tommy's mockery was sure to be intense and rigorous, based on how he had been in Rome.  And Oliver had his doubts about how Diggle would react to his agent falling for a member of the KGB.

“He likes you, though,” Felicity had said, attempting to reassure him.  But her small fingers, lightly stroking his shoulders, did even more to comfort him.  “He likes you and Tommy.”

“He'd prefer if you liked Tommy.  An extension of that special relationship between England and America,” Oliver had told her.

Felicity had looked up at him, her chin set and a glint in her eyes.  “You're the only person I want to have a special relationship with.”

And then she had kissed him, or maybe he had kissed her.  His memory, normally dependable and crystal-clear, was somewhat hazy when it came to his kisses with Felicity.

So they kept the way they spent their off-hours private, although honestly, Oliver knew they were all agreeing to just not talk about it.  Which was something he was used to.  It was like back home and how everyone knew that every five year plan was altered to ensure the country met the goals, but nobody talked about how the goal for tractor production or acres planted changed from year to year.

And this new mission was vital to the security and safety of the world.  It was so important that America and Russia were willing to continue working together, in spite of their differences.  Their new organization, A.R.G.U.S., was going to stand above governments and protect the entire world.  And the new enemy made the Vinciguerras look like children playing with toy guns.

All they seemed to know about the enemy was its name: H.I.V.E.  And they didn't even know what the acronym stood for yet.  But in Istanbul, they could gather more information, organize the intelligence and begin their real work.

Their team seemed to be ideally suited for this task.  Diggle clearly knew what he had been doing when he gathered the three of them and made them into a team.  Oliver could watch a suspect or building for hours or days, his patience and focus never wavering.  When someone needed to be approached, Tommy was able to use his con man instincts to read the individual and immediately determine the best approach, whether that meant being a charming businessman or a seductive lover.  And Felicity . . . well, she was the true brains of the operation.  Not only did she improve their technology, but she could hold an immense amount of intelligence in her head, analyze it, and come up with a pattern or a clue that no one else had.

In fact, they were working together so well, Diggle had commented they might be done in Istanbul faster than expected.

Which made Oliver nervous.  Because . . . because the future was uncertain.  And for once, that vagueness made him want to grasp what he had, rather than push it away to minimize the hurt.

He did not want to leave Istanbul without knowing what it would be like to spend the night with Felicity.  To be that close with her.  To her.

Yet he did not want her to think his desires merely arose from his body.  That he wanted her because she was beautiful.  No, his attraction to her was based on so many elements.  Her hair was like sunshine and her lips were utterly kissable and her body was small yet lush, yes.  But just as much as her face and her figure drew him in, so did her soul and her mind.  She challenged him, enchanted him, and soothed him.  She was sparkle and warmth after a long cold Soviet winter.  If he never got to kiss her again, he would find a way to bear it, just as long as he could hear her talk, see her hands move over a circuit board, feel the warmth of her gaze.

There was a word for this feeling, Oliver knew.  And even though he was a patchwork of angry little boy and stoic man, he wanted to give Felicity that word, so she knew that his heart was in her hands, to do with as she wished.  He knew that if she did not want it back, she would at least be gentle in returning it to him.

But in his wildest hopes and dreams, when he was deep in sleep, Felicity did not give him his heart back.  Instead, she gave him hers.

They had eaten dinner on the small little balcony off his room.  A light meal, with wine and a candle in the center of the table.  But candlelight and starlight were weak illumination next to the glow of Felicity.  

“It’s so beautiful,” she said softly, turning her head to look out over the city.  The sky was a velvety purple and the air was growing cool.  She shivered and looked back at him with a smile.  “Perhaps we could admire the beauty from inside?”  

Oliver smiled at her and nodded, blowing out the candle and then taking her hand as they stepped back into his room.  Without any thought, his arms went around her and he kissed her slowly.  

“Mmm . . . Oliver, we’re not looking at the view,” she said against his lips, her talented fingers immediately running over his chest.  She liked to touch him--couldn’t seem to keep her hands off him.  It was something that made Oliver lose his head.  

“You are prettier than the view,” he whispered, lifting her up in his arms.  “Than any view.”  

She let out a half-gasp, half-snort.  “Who’d expect a Russian to have such a honey tongue?” she said, her arms going around his neck.  Then she blushed.  “That made no sense.”  

“I disagree,” Oliver said, carrying her over to the divan and gently settling her against the cushions.  He propped himself up on top of her, cocooning her between his body and the divan.  “I am a bear.  Bears like honey.  Although you are sweeter than honey, underneath all your sass.”  He placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss over the spot on her neck, just under her ear, where she liked his lips best.  

“Ungh,” she groaned, rocking up against him.  “Oliver . . .”  Her hands clutched at his shoulders and Oliver moved his lips along her jaw, meeting her mouth with his own.  His free hand--the one that wasn’t keeping himself from crushing her with his body--went to her side, slowly stroking and teasing the soft roundness of her breast.  

Going slow like this--kissing her, touching her over her clothes, pressing against her but not too hard--had been all he had allowed himself up until now.  He had wanted to know more about Felicity, discover the woman that she truly was.  

But their time could be nearly up.  

Pushing himself up, Oliver looked down at Felicity.  Took in her red, kiss-swollen lips, the wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail, the pink of her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes.

And contrary to her compliment and his plans, the words just fell out of his mouth with no finesse and little sweetness.  “Felicity--I do not want tonight to end.”  

XXX

For a long moment, she could only stare up at him.  A kiss-addled Oliver was rare, and that was what he seemed to be right now.  He was breathing hard, his hair disheveled from her roaming hands, his eyes dark and deep like a mountain lake.  But there was a resolution, a determination to him tonight, that was new.  At least when it came to her.  When it came to them.

And although her body and a good chunk of her mind knew exactly what he was saying--and was letting out a little cheer at the prospect of what it meant for tonight to not end--Felicity had to ask him exactly what his words meant.  For the sake of her heart.

“You . . .” she began, lifting her hand to cup his cheek.  “You want me to stay?  You want--me?”

He nodded quickly, almost before she was done speaking.  “Yes, Felicity.  I don't know how much longer we have here, and I nearly left Rome without kissing you.  I don't want to leave here without you knowing how I . . .”

She could see him struggling to say more.  How the feelings burned in his eyes.  Yet it was so hard to actually speak the words that mattered.  Felicity knew something about that, so she gently brushed her thumb over his lips.

“I don't want tonight to end, either,” she said softly.

Oliver blinked.  “You are sure?” he asked, searching her face.

Such a simple question.  And an equally simple answer, because she was sure.  While she wasn't quite certain who Felicity Smoak was, after everything had changed so quickly, she knew who Oliver Queen was.  Steady yet unexpected, cold hands and a warm heart, the sturdy base that she wanted to build the rest of her life upon.

So she just nodded, smiling at him.  And the look on his face, the emotions that made her think of the little boy who had to grow up much too fast and become hard and brutal and a weapon because of his father's failings . . . it brought tears to her eyes as Oliver lowered his head to kiss her.

His lips had just touched hers when there was a knock on the door.  “Peril?” Tommy said through the door.  “My apologies to you and Felicity, but I'm afraid we have some work to do.”

Oliver cursed in Russian, something she only liked to happen when her hands wandered over his body, and then lifted himself up and called through the door.  “You are still a terrible spy, Merlyn!”

Tommy laughed.  “Meet in the rec room in five minutes,” he replied, using the coded name for Diggle’s room.

“Da!” Oliver said, his accent heavier than ever, in a sign of his annoyance.  He looked down at her and sighed.

“It's just our luck,” Felicity told him, giving him a regretful smile.  “Tomorrow?”

He nodded and pressed a soft peck of a kiss against her lips before lifting himself to his feet.  “Tomorrow.”

“That wasn’t much of a kiss,” she said, staying stretched out on the couch for an extra moment.  Just to make sure her knees wouldn’t fail her when she had to get up.  

“It will give you a reason to show up tomorrow,” he said, a flash of the sense of humor that she loved.  It reminded her of standing on that table, with Oliver’s hands on her leg to fix her tracker, and him telling her he was taking his time so he wouldn’t get lost.  

Smiling at him, Felicity pushed herself up and ran her hands lightly over her hair.  She blew out a breath, adjusted her glasses and gave a nod.  “Right.”  

“Come,” Oliver said, holding his hand out to her.  

Happily taking his hand, Felicity let Oliver pull her up, hoping he might try and steal another kiss from her.  But he was stronger than her--in more than just that way--and he didn’t kiss her again.  But he did hold her hand until they reached Diggle’s room.  

The briefing moved along briskly.  As Felicity listened, she realized that her role in this assignment would be limited.  It would be mainly Oliver and Tommy, infiltrating one of Istanbul’s public baths and gathering intel.  

Which actually worked to her advantage.  It would give her time to prepare for tomorrow night.  

She was more than ready to take this step with Oliver.  Of course it wouldn’t be her first time, so there were no butterflies on that score.  Although there was certainly a different kind of nerves.  Because there was such a connection between her and Oliver, in spite of only knowing each other for such a short time.  It was like nothing she had ever experienced, nothing she had ever felt.  It was so odd--she felt the most impulsive rush when she was around him, to throw caution to the wind and just follow her instincts.  Yet at the same time, there was the feeling that they were building something together.  That this wasn’t a fling but a relationship.  Something that would last.  

So she wanted tomorrow night to be special.  Not that it wouldn’t be special, but . . .  but she wanted to savor this time she got to spend with Oliver.  

Thankfully, her mind was well-equipped to listen to Diggle and take in all the details about the mission, while planning her own mission.  By the time she woke up the next morning, she had everything worked out.  A few trips to the local shops and the restaurant that Oliver had taken her to, on their first night in Istanbul, let her have everything needed for her plans.  

In the afternoon, she slipped a note under Oliver’s door, telling him to come to her room at seven.  Then she returned to her room and took care of her own preparations.  

When Oliver knocked on her door, promptly at seven, Felicity took a deep breath.  She twisted one of the curls in her ponytail and smoothed down her dress, then opened the door.  

Oliver’s hair was still damp from the baths, although it appeared he had changed into his normal slacks and turtleneck from whatever he had worn during the mission.  He straightened up as she opened the door, giving her his normal small smile.  But she could tell he was nervous, by the way his fingers were rubbing against his thumb.  

And something about seeing his nerves made her feel better.  Excited.  

“Hello,” she said, sliding her fingers between his fidgeting ones.  She went up on her toes to kiss him, only for Oliver to wrap one arm around her and lift her up off her feet, kissing her slowly and deeply.  

Felicity felt her eyes flutter shut.  Oliver’s lips were warm and searching against hers.  She wrapped her free arm around his neck, holding on to him tightly as her feet dangled slightly above the floor.  

They had kissed so many times at this point.  Yet it still amazed her how easy this was.  How natural.  How right.

Slowly the kiss ended, Oliver pressing a few light pecks against her mouth before she pulled back enough to breathe.  “So I guess today wasn’t so good?” she asked breathlessly.  “Oh, I must be heavy,” she said, realizing how far off the ground she was.  

“You are light as a feather,” Oliver said, smiling at her.  Really smiling at her, her Russian bear-man.  

She blushed, pressing her face against his neck as she squeezed his fingers, which she had kept holding throughout the sweeping-her-off-her-feet kiss.

Oliver brushed his lips against her temple.  “I promised you a kiss to make it worth showing up.  Was it?”  

“Mmm,” she said, nodding as she let her head fall back to look up at him.  “Of course, we are in my room, so it's not as if I had to do anything--you were the one who had to show up . . .”

Chuckling, he easily set her down, slowly and gently.  Once her feet hit the floor, Felicity tugged on his hand, pulling him into the room.  

“I got dinner for us,” she began to say, only for Oliver to kiss her again.  Hungrier this time, his tongue sweeping into her mouth and stroking against hers.

Moaning, she kissed him back and ran her hands down Oliver's chest, feeling his muscles jump.

“I-- I guess we'll have dinner later,” she panted against his mouth.

“Later,” Oliver agreed, his voice strained as he kissed her.

XXX

This moment was the only thing he had been able to think about all day.  Having Felicity in his arms, kissing him and touching him, smiling at him and talking to him.

There was nothing but her.

She felt so small and delicate.  His hands were so huge and almost clumsy on her, while her fingers were so very good at finding places on his body that made him squirm and moan.

When her hands pressed against his stomach, her fingers spread wide over his abdominal muscles, Oliver had to stop kissing her to take a deep breath.

“You're not hurt, are you?” Felicity asked, looking up at him with her teeth lightly nibbling her full lower lip.

He had to smile.  “No.  Your touch feels good.”

Her smile was brighter than the sun.  Then her eyes flicked down, watching her hands slowly push up his sweater.

They both breathed in, Oliver watching Felicity and Felicity watching her hands as if they weren't hers, while she slowly traced the lines of his muscles.

It was a new kind of torture.  Her fingers were so warm and soft, exploring his body with gentle touches and presses.  Oliver felt like groaning--but not from pain.

But he stayed silent as Felicity stroked his skin, her breathing growing heavier.  Finally she looked up at him, her teeth still sunk in her lower lip until she spoke.  “You're . . . you are amazing.”

He gave a small shake off his head and ran his hands down her arms.  She shivered, her fair skin prickling with goosebumps.  “Felicity,” he said, not knowing what else to say.  Not sure how to put into words all the emotions in his heart.

“Oliver,” she replied softly, giving him a small smile.  She lifted her hands from his abs and took his fingers between her own.  As she leaned up to kiss him, she pulled his arms around her, moving his hands to her bare back.  Because of course the dress she was wearing--one she had never worn before--had an open back, like the orange one she had been wearing the last day in Rome.

At this sign of permission being granted or her unspoken demand for what she wanted, Oliver did not hesitate.  He returned her kiss, his lips lingering on hers, as his hands glided over her back, circling each vertebrae as he dragged his fingers up her spine. 

When he reached the top of her back, where the fabric of her dress resumed, he paused, letting his fingers rest against the buttons.

“Yes, Oliver,” she breathed out, her hands stroking his rib cage, trailing warmth in their wake, before she kissed him again.

He had to break the kiss because his fingers were shaking too much to undo the small buttons.  At the same time, Felicity pushed his sweater up even higher.  “Want this off,” she said, a small crease between her eyebrows and a pout in her voice. 

“Do you want me to unbutton your dress or take my sweater off?” Oliver asked, pausing to look at her.  

The way she actually pursed her lips and thought about that question made Oliver feel like laughing as he had never laughed before.  His lips twitched, but instead of laughing, he stepped back and pulled his sweater over his head.  

He draped his turtleneck over a chair and looked at Felicity, who was staring at him with very wide eyes.  “Oh,” she said, one of her hands fluttering as it pushed up her glasses.  “Taking your sweater off--that--that was a good decision.”  

“Really?” he said, looking down at himself.  Even with his skills, there was evidence on his body of his failures: scars from stab wounds, a crude tattoo from an undercover assignment within a Russian mob group, and a badly-healed burn covered his torso.  He thought Felicity would find the flaws distasteful--not stare at him like this.  

“Oh, yeah,” she said, stepping close to him.  “Because--because you are more than amazing.”  She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips gently parted.  

Taking a deep breath, he grasped her waist.  Needing to do something with his hands instead of rubbing his thumb against his fingers.  Needing to make sure she was real.  

“You’re everything,” she whispered, leaning forward to press a butterfly-soft kiss against the center of his chest.  She stayed there, her breath hot against his skin, as she softly told him, “You’re  _ my  _ everything.”

At the touch of her lips, Oliver sucked in a breath.  But it was her words that made him feel truly breathless.  Rocked to the core, laid bare before her more than his current state of dress.  Because oh, how he wanted that.  To be hers, totally and utterly.  For no nation to hold a claim on him that trumped hers.  And he wanted the same for himself.  For her to belong to him and no one or nowhere else.        

“Yes,” he said to any question she might ever ask him.  She looked up at him and he leaned down to cover her lips, kissing her with all that he had.  Her hands covered his pectoral muscles, squeezing gently, her fingertips digging in.  

Oliver needed her closer.  And he needed her skin.  

Still kissing her, he ran his hand up her back and plucked at the buttons holding her dress.  Then, when they were undone, he tugged at her dress.  Felicity gave a small shimmy, her dress falling and leaving her bare to the waist.  

And he was breathless again.  

“Felicity,” he said, somehow finding enough air to speak.  Her cheeks went pink and her eyes looked down in embarrassment.  

Reaching out, he cupped her cheek and lifted her head.  “You are beautiful.  And everything.”  

Her eyes brightened at his words, and she went up on her toes to kiss him as her hands pushed her dress the rest of the way down.  

As soon as her dress hit the floor with a soft thump, Oliver wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up.  

“Oh!” Felicity said, her hands scrambling to grip his shoulders.

Oliver smiled at her--really smiled, feeling such great happiness that he couldn’t restrain himself.  “Perhaps I should have given you warning.”  

“Don’t worry, I catch on fast,” Felicity said, her legs going around his waist and making him feel like his eyes were crossing.  

“I--I see,” he said, one of his hands going underneath her in case he stumbled.  

“Oliver,” she moaned, kissing his neck as her hands ran over him.  

Slowly, placing each foot carefully, he carried her towards the bed, feeling his heart beat harder.  When he reached it, Oliver lowered her carefully onto the embroidered coverlet, making sure her head was resting against the crimson-covered pillows.  

And then he straightened up to gaze down at her.  Because he could look upon her for a century and not discover everything about her.  

Wearing only a pair of lace-trimmed panties, Felicity was a vision.  She took deep breaths, her breasts rising and falling.  Her hands rested over her stomach, her teeth gnawing on her lower lip as she rubbed her legs together.  Her very long, toned, captivating legs.  

“Oliver, stop staring and come here,” she said, gesturing for him to come forward.  

Whatever she asked of him, he would give.  So Oliver took a step before pausing.  He swallowed and looked at her.  

“What is it?” she asked, pushing herself up onto her elbows.  

That made her chest do very interesting things, and Oliver swallowed harder.  

“Oliver,” Felicity said, her voice sounding small.  Like she was feeling shy and embarrassed.  

“Oh,” he replied, feeling his cheeks flush.  Moving quickly, he undid the button and zipper of his slacks and pushed them down.  

Felicity echoed him, her “Oh” long and drawn-out.  “Another good decision,” she said as Oliver stood up and then, unable to wait any longer, climbed onto the bed and covered her body with his own.  

Her hands ran down his back as Oliver kissed her slowly.  Unlike last night, when he had held himself above her, minimizing the contact of their bodies, he slowly lowered himself down against her, Felicity’s legs parting to allow him to rest in the cradle of her thighs.  

He moaned softly against her neck.  “Felicity,” he whispered against her ear, feeling the first flutter of his control beginning to waver.  

“Just--Oliver--one second--”  

“What?” he said, looking down at her.  Her hands had pulled away from him and were working to get between them.  

“My glasses,” she said, moving to take them off.  But Oliver gently took her hand and pushed it aside.  Felicity looked up at him, confused, until he lightly drew her glasses off and folded them flat.  He carefully set them on the table beside her bed, then reached behind her head and drew the holder out of her ponytail.  

She gazed up at him, an expression of so many emotions--surprise and happiness and desire and even more, all rolled into one--flickering over her face, and then she gave her head a little shake, making her curls fall over the pillows.  

Then Felicity smiled at him, as bright as the sun.  And with the gravitational pull the sun had on everything, it was no wonder that Oliver fell straight into her arms.  

XXX

The squeaking of the bed, the soft groans of a couple expressing their feelings . . . they were quite audible through the thin floors of this hotel.  

From his room one floor below, Tommy Merlyn looked up from the files he was studying, going over the new information he had acquired with his partner earlier today, as well as everything the team had gathered so far.  While he was studying about an organization called H.I.V.E., his partners were studying each other.  

“That’s one way to improve relations between East and West,” Tommy said aloud with a smirk before returning to his research.  After all,  _ someone  _ needed to be ready for tomorrow’s mission.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was wondering, while Malcolm is Tommy’s handler, he is not Tommy's father in this fic. I just wanted someone that Tommy would have an adversarial relationship with, and who better than Malcolm? Because everyone has an adversarial relationship with him. :-)


End file.
